


This Isn't How Our Story Ends

by roqueamadi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bronn is So Done, Feelings Realization, Friends to Lovers, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 07, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-04-29 15:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14475996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roqueamadi/pseuds/roqueamadi
Summary: Post-season 7. Bronn arrives just in time to save Jaime from the doomed battle for Winterfell, and he's determined to keep Jaime alive, no matter how much the spoiled highborn twat complains about it.





	1. Winterfell

The army of the dead were almost on them.

Bronn had only been at Winterfell for about five fucking minutes before the battle started. He was still wearing the clothes he’d travelled in, following after Jaime fucking Lannister like a trained dog, all the way up here, to what? Certain death, it looked like.

The army approaching on jolting, unsteady legs was at least five times the size of the force Winterfell had mustered. _Why_ they were meeting them in the field, Bronn had no fucking clue. He would certainly like to know where the Dragon Queen’s bloody dragons were; looked like they might be pretty useful right about now.

Anyway, here he was on a battlefield—on the _losing_ side, apparently, which Bronn was certainly not thrilled about—and he didn’t quite know how he’d ended up there.

The only thing he knew was that he needed to find Jaime.

The forces were already beginning to clash at the front lines. The dead men even had _cavalry,_ if that was even possible, and they were moving like proper cavalry, too, riding over the hill, ready to smash the living army’s lines—and he spotted the stupid blonde-headed cunt standing in the vanguard with the big woman and the Stark bastard, _of course,_ all ready to be fucking killed.

Bronn pushed towards him, moving against the crowd. Soldiers were already fleeing the front lines; they always did in battles like this. Bronn stuck his elbows out and shoved forward, refusing to be buffeted, and pushing down his instincts that were all screaming at him that he was _definitely going the wrong way, what the fuck was he doing?_ Anyone who had any battlefield experience whatsoever would surely know this was a lost cause.

Before he got there, the cavalry carved through the vanguard. Bronn shoved two soldiers out of the way to make a hasty step sideways, narrowly avoiding a lance that swept through the lines ahead of its attached horse and rider, then pushed through to the front.

He reached Jaime just as he went down, between a large wight and an undead horse. Bronn cut the wight down with his new sword—dragonglass, but otherwise rubbish—and bent to seize Jaime’s armoured elbow, hauling him upright.

Jaime struggled at first, thinking it was another foe, but Bronn pulled him quickly up to his feet and when Jaime’s eyes fell on him properly, he did a genuine double-take, his mouth falling open.

 _“Bronn?_ What—?”

“No time to chat, princess, let’s go.”

He grabbed Jaime’s elbow again and tugged him back the way they came.

“What are you doing?” Jaime shouted over the noise of the battle. Men surged around them, buffeting them both.

“Saving your arse,” Bronn yelled back.

“I’m not going any—” Jaime was cut off as another undead steed charged past, something catching him on the the back of the head, knocking him dizzy. Bronn grabbed him, putting his left arm around him, his right gripping his sword, and _dragged_ him.

They made it several feet before they halted, surrounded suddenly by wights. Visibility was getting worse in the falling snow. The rest of the battle momentarily disappeared in a white veil, leaving only them and the circle of wights. They fought off the monsters until Jaime took another hit to the head from a hammer, and Bronn shoved him backwards.

“Just stay behind me!” he yelled, facing off against the remaining wights. He couldn’t spare a turn of his head to check Jaime was okay; he just prayed.

 _Fucking ridiculous,_ his own voice sounded in his head. _What the fuck am I doing here?_ This wasn’t Bronn’s _thing_. Fighting in hopeless battles, following commanders to death and glory, risking your life—he didn’t go in for this kind of shit. He didn’t know why he wasn’t already in Braavos finding a new employer, one who would value his skills and pay him nicely and not inspire these bizarre feelings that he refused to examine but had nevertheless led him here, to the north, to this battle.

He handled the wights. He cut them down one by one, until finally he had a moment’s breathing space and turned to haul Jaime back to his feet. He wasn’t bleeding, but his eyes were dazed from the hit and his legs were unsteady. Bronn put his arm around him again and continued their painfully slow escape. He made for the edge of the battle. It was hard to see anything in the heavy snow; they were whited out so badly that at times Bronn couldn't see Jaime at all, he could only feel him beneath his arm, wrapped tightly around him with a firm grip on the belt at Jaime’s left hip.

Winterfell was somewhere behind them. He didn’t head that way. He turned west, away from the fighting, and into the trees.

 

It was hours later. Bronn said night had come and gone. They were miles from the battlefield. Bronn had dragged him to gods knew where; deep into the Wolfswood.

A small fire crackled beside him. Jaime still lay on his back; sitting up had made his head swim too violently. He had lost all his heavy armour at some point along the way, and now lay wrapped in his cloak and Bronn’s as well. He lifted his hand to feel again at the massive lump that was forming just above his temple, but Bronn, seated next to him, swatted his hand away.

“Stop touching it,” he growled, then returned his attention to the rabbit he was skinning.

“Do you think they lost?” Jaime murmured, his voice still raw.

“Aye,” Bronn replied brusquely. “Unless they managed some kinda retreat.”

“I should have been there.”

Bronn skewered the rabbit on a sharpened stick with alarming ferocity. “You wanted to die, did you?” he spat.

“Yes,” Jaime replied automatically. “Of course. I was meant to die there.”

“You’re being fuckin’ ridiculous—”

Jaime lurched up into sitting position, cradling his head in his hand as it pounded in protest at the movement. “That’s my _role,_ Bronn,” he said through his teeth, “to inspire the men. That’s what I’m _for—_ that’s _all_ I’m good for now. My death might have rallied them to fight harder.”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Lannister. Don’t know why I dragged myself all the way up here just to have you fuckin’ _whinge_ at me for _saving your arse. Again.”_

“I don’t know either,” Jaime growled, getting unsteadily to his feet. “And if I’m so annoying, why don’t you just go? Why are you still here?” He staggered as he stood, and couldn’t help throwing his hand out to Bronn’s shoulder to stop himself from falling.

Bronn grasped his forearm until he steadied, growling, “Oh, you’re happy to make your own way from here, are you? That’s likely. Probably can’t even wipe your own arse without ten servants and gold-plated paper, fuckin’ spoiled little shit.”

Jaime pushed away from Bronn. “I’ll go back to Winterfell. I need to know if they lost, if any of them survived.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, rubbing his temple. “People I knew were in that battle. Pod was there. Brienne—”

“Oh aye, off you go then. I'm not coming with you.”

“I don’t need your help. Just go.”

“I _will_ go, and I won’t be fucking coming back for you, Jaime Lannister.”

“I meant what I said.”

Jaime felt an unexpected stab of guilt in his chest at the look of betrayal— _more_ than betrayal—on Bronn’s face. But he quickly wiped it away and got to his feet. He gathered his things. “Fine,” he muttered. “Have fun walking in circles ‘til you starve to death.”

“Fine!”

Jaime spun on his heel, scrubbing angrily at his eyes, and stalked off into the forest so he wouldn’t have to see Bronn leave.

He did wander in circles. He didn’t know how much time passed. He really _didn’t_ know the way back to Winterfell, but that barely mattered now.

He reached a clearing where the ground dropped suddenly down into a valley. Jaime stepped up to the edge and peered over. It wasn’t a huge drop, but probably far enough. If he died here, the others would likely still assume he’d gone down in the battle. It wasn’t too late. He just wasn’t sure if he could actually jump. Despite what Bronn was always saying, he _did_ have some self-preservation instincts. But, he wondered in a rather detached way, if he didn’t let himself think about it too much, just _did_ it, then it would probably work…

Then, suddenly, something hit him. He tumbled sideways. All the air was knocked out of him as he hit the ground. He landed on his back and when his vision focused again he saw that it was Bronn, pinning him to the ground, and he was looking at Jaime like, like… not like he’d ever looked at him before.

Jaime lay there for several seconds, Bronn pinning his shoulders pinned to the ground, seated firmly on his thighs, panting heavily. Jaime was unable to drag his gaze away.

Finally he squirmed uncomfortably and said, “Bronn, I—”

Bronn hit him. Jaime flinched before realising it wasn’t that hard, and in the chest, not in the face.

“Don’t do that again.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, Lannister.”

Bronn was more serious than Jaime had ever seen him. Enough that he repressed the urge to make a snide comment.

“I thought you left, anyway,” he muttered.

Bronn shrugged. “I came back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, it's another 'going north after season 7' fic. I just can't help myself XD
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr.](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Title from the song HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T by Fall Out Boy


	2. The Wolfswood

Bronn was disgusted with himself.

Never once in his life had he said he was done with someone and then come crawling back. It was absolutely fucking pathetic. He had got well away too, walking for a full hour before he stopped in the middle of the dark trees and spent several minutes kicking the shit out of a sapling—some inordinate yelling might have been involved—and then turned back. And found Jaime on the edge of a fucking _cliff_ , for fuck’s sake.

They had reached some kind of truce that night, but it didn’t stop them arguing every day about one thing or another. It was fucking freezing, they had no supplies and inadequate clothing. Bronn had managed to snare a few rabbits, but after three days of nothing _but_ rabbit he was starting to crave bread and potatoes so badly his mouth was watering at just the thought of them, and he knew their bodies couldn’t keep functioning too long on just meat. Not at the pace they were going, anyway. Wights were following them, and they were both very aware of it. They could sometimes see glowing blue eyes far in the distance behind them at night when they huddled together shoulder to shoulder for a few hours of rest, and they hardly dared stop long. It was about the worst travelling conditions you could ask for, and Bronn was frankly surprised they hadn’t come to blows more than once. Travelling with anyone else in these conditions, he certainly would have. Still, Jaime followed him west, trudging further every day.

However, that _didn’t_ mean Jaime was any closer to forgiving Bronn for saving his life, and continually brought up the fact that many other people he knew had likely died on that battlefield. Particularly—

“Brienne. I know,” Bronn interrupted Jaime mid-sentence, as they were navigating a steep descent on the third grey afternoon. “So sorry for stopping you from valianty dying alongside your beloved, _Ser Jaime.”_

He waited for the yelled response—they’d been over this argument several times before—but it didn’t come. Instead, Jaime spent a long time deliberately concentrating on his footing, until Bronn looked away, and then he finally said, “She wasn’t.”

Bronn glanced back at him. “Wasn’t what?”

“My ‘beloved’. We weren’t like that.”

“You _weren’t?”_ That certainly wasn’t the impression Jaime had given him from all the times he’d talked about her in the past. “You told me you were in love with her,” Bronn muttered.

Jaime slid down several inches on loose gravel before Bronn grabbed him. When he steadied, he said, “No. I wanted to be, but… I don’t think I’m capable of love.”

“Well that’s rubbish,” Bronn replied, turning to face the cliff to lower himself down the next steep ledge. “You talk like you’re some kinda monster, but—”

“But what?” Jaime asked, looking down at him when he cut off, then turning to follow Bronn’s gaze, looking back up the cliff to where several wights were peering over the edge.

“Fuckit,” Bronn muttered.

Jaime turned back, wide-eyed, half-reaching for his sword. Bronn reached up to tug at the leg of his breeches. “We’re not facing them off here, idiot. Run for it.”

Bronn counted at least twenty from quick glances over his shoulder as he half ran, half slid down the rest of the steep slope, pulling Jaime with him. The wights piled down the cliff behind them, some getting smashed apart and simply reassembling themselves afterwards.

The valley dipped down to a broad, fast-flowing river at the bottom. Bronn had been expecting to come across it soon. He didn’t have a map; he was going from memory, so he was glad for the confirmation that they were going in the right direction—but only slightly, because it couldn’t have come at a worse time.

“We have to cross,” Bronn yelled over the sound of the water.

“Are you insane?” Jaime yelled back. “The current is too fast. And we’ll freeze.”

“What else can we do? Stand and fight?”

He waved a hand behind them. The wights were closing on them, and more were piling over the cliff face every second. There were simply too many.

Jaime seemed to be trying to think of a response, but Bronn didn’t wait for him. He grabbed his arm again, tugging him forward. There were plenty of rocks breaking the surface of the current; if they could keep a grip on them, they wouldn’t be dragged downstream.

Bronn went in first. It _was_ freezing. He held back a gasp as the water soaked him up to his armpits, the current tugging hard against his balance and his footing. He turned and held a hand out to Jaime.

“Hurry,” he said, watching the wights now running towards them, closing in on them. Jaime took his hand and squeezed his eyes shut as he followed Bronn in.

Bronn kept a firm grip on Jaime’s hand as he started across the river. It grew deeper—up to his neck—but he pushed forward, leveraging his feet against the rocks, getting them as far across as he could before the wights hit the bank.

The monsters reached it—and then they continued, into the water. Bronn’s heart lurched—he had figured they wouldn’t be able to follow them across, but what if the things could somehow swim? One of them got into the water as far as the first rock, as Bronn and Jaime stood frozen halfway across, watching—but the current was too much for it. It was swept away, downstream, quickly out of sight under the white rapids. Several others followed before they clearly gave it up as a bad job, and then just stood there watching.

Bronn and Jaime made painstaking progress across the rest of the distance. Bronn’s muscles were burning from the cold, his heart struggling to beat against it.

Finally, _finally,_ they reached the other side, and threw themselves gasping onto the bank. The snow underneath Bronn’s back felt like a warm bed in comparison to the water. They gave themselves a few minutes recovery before they hurried on, and even once they were several hundred metres inside the forest on the other side, Bronn could still see the distant blue glow of the wights’ eyes, still standing at the bank, staring after them.

 

They didn’t stop until well into the night. Bronn wanted to keep going, to put as much distance between them and the river as possible; what if the wights found some way to cross? But Jaime wasn’t doing so well. He had developed a hacking cough through the course of the evening, and by the time Bronn slowed down in a suitable clearing, he glanced back and saw that Jaime was pale and shivering in his wet clothes.

Bronn moved quickly, hurrying to find a log and split it open with his knife, shaving out the dry wood inside to get enough tinder to light from his flint. He bent down to blow on it carefully, watching out of the corner of his eye as Jaime simply stood there dully in the middle of the clearing. Usually he at least helped collect logs for the fire. Bronn moved even quicker, throwing some sticks down as the fire built and then running back and forth to collect larger logs. When he thought it at least wouldn’t go out, he grabbed Jaime’s arm and tugged him over, closer to the little bit of warmth the fire was starting to provide. He undid Jaime’s cloak, spread it on the ground, then lifted his right forearm and quickly unlaced the gold hand. He tossed it aside and started on Jaime’s tunic fastenings.

In truth, Bronn had thought about doing this plenty of times before, but not under such dire circumstances. More like, in a nice warm room, with some candles, and a big soft mattress, and some oil ready to go. Instead, he found his hands slipping as he tried to go too quickly, unlacing the top tunic then the one underneath. Bronn swore when he saw Jaime wore a leather necklace under his tunic—Bronn had unpicked one of the seams of his own jacket to use the threading as a snare. It was an unlikely choice of jewellery for Jaime, though. The cheap strap of leather held a much more expensive looking ring. Something he had snatched on his hasty escape from King’s Landing, perhaps. Bronn put it out of his mind once he finished undoing both tunics, and shoved them off Jaime’s shoulders, causing him to stagger on unsteady feet at the jolting movement.

“Jaime, are you with me?” Bronn asked urgently, glancing up at his glazed eyes. His breathing was very shallow, and all the colour had disappeared from his face. He was no longer shivering; a bad sign.

He picked up the pace, ripping off Jaime’s belt and peeling his breeches and leggings together down his thighs, pulling his boots off with them. He was mildly concerned when Jaime didn’t even complain about Bronn pulling his underclothes off too, but the stupid things were made of cotton, the worst possible material for this weather. Jaime probably needed it to protect his soft highborn arse. He only glanced once at Jaime’s groin, but it wasn’t fair to judge him in this weather. Bronn sat him down right next to the fire, on his cloak, and took a few seconds to stake some sticks and twigs in the ground to hang up the rest of Jaime’s clothes, encircling the fire so they would maybe dry, hurriedly shedding his own wet clothes as he went.

He staked them up with Jaime’s, creating a full circle of cloth around them, but left on his woollen underclothes. Then he sat and tugged Jaime down, lying him with his front curled around the fire and his back to Bronn. His skin was still cold to the touch. Bronn pulled his cloak over them—it was damp, but it was woollen, so it was still warm—and wrapped his arms around Jaime’s chest, rubbing over his heart quickly, until it started to warm from friction alone. Within minutes, the places their skin touched was getting warmer too; Bronn’s chest to Jaime’s back, his thighs to the backs of Jaime’s legs. He could feel Jaime’s tense muscles starting to soften slightly, and then, finally, Jaime moved a little. He stretched slightly, and then rolled, turning so he could see Bronn.

“Are you alright?” Bronn asked, unsure.

Jaime didn’t reply, but he rolled further, turning so his front was to Bronn instead, putting his head on Bronn’s chest, an arm around his waist. Bronn swallowed hard and held him tightly.

He wasn’t sure when it had begun. He tried not to think about it. Before the dragon, certainly. Nothing in his entire life had ever made him act so stupidly as being in love with Jaime Lannister.

He let Jaime sleep late the next morning—far later than Bronn would have liked. But Jaime was absolutely wrecked. He couldn’t continue like this for much longer. Luckily, by Bronn’s calculations, they weren’t far from Deepwood Motte now.

He got Jaime going eventually. None of their clothes were dry, but they were at least less wet than the night before. He convinced Jaime to go without his cotton underclothes, stuffing them in his own pocket without thinking much about it, then was struck with a rather unfamiliar feeling of embarrassment later in the day when he realised he had just _stolen Jaime’s underwear_. He pushed the thought aside. Cotton was no friend when you were trying to keep warm.

It was a long, painful, cold day. The snow never relented, and Bronn wanted so badly to stop. Jaime’s almost constant questioning of when they were stopping wasn’t helping, and he looked like he was truly suffering, which made Bronn’s heart hurt.

They reached the town after dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr.](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/)


	3. Deepwood Motte

Bronn spied a brothel on the way through the town, and as soon as a room at the inn was sorted and Jaime was climbing gratefully into the bed, Bronn turned on his heel and went straight back there. He was hungry and tired, yes, but half a loaf of bread shoved in his mouth on the way there was enough to tide him over, and besides, those needs were nothing compared to his pent up sexual frustration.

He picked a pretty girl. Got up to the room with her. Got his clothes off. She did a good job, with plenty of touching and mouthing and all, but… it didn’t work. Ten minutes of fondling and his cock was as disinterested as if he was getting examined by some ancient maester, not being touched by a beautiful girl with big tits and soft hands and a willing mouth.

Bronn sighed, and flopped back on the bed. He was disgusted with himself. He was angry, but he didn’t know if it was more at Jaime or at himself.

“Ser… Perhaps if I brought a friend in to help?” the girl asked meekly. Bronn shrugged. He was willing to try anything at this point. This had never happened to him before in his life.

However, the ‘friend’ she had in mind wasn’t quite what he was expecting. Two minutes later, a slim blonde lad swanned in.

Bronn sat up. “I don’t think…” his train of thought cut off as the male whore dropped his thin robe, exposing his body, and crawled confidently up the bed on all fours, his pretty arse ready and exposed for Bronn.

Well, that was the end of it. The girl smoothly exited the room.

 

Bronn felt unsettled. Although his trip to the brothel had scratched an itch, he was half-wondering whether fucking a pretty male whore might not have been a great idea for him in the long run. It had been far too easy to imagine that blonde lad was Jaime, and now he couldn’t get the image out of his mind.

So he was already aggravated when he returned to the inn several hours later and spotted Jaime sitting at a table in the tavern downstairs, deep in discussion with a rough-looking bearded man.

“What’s this?” Bronn asked loudly, stepping up to the table. Jaime jumped as though he’d been caught doing something illegal, and turned to look up at him.

“Bronn. This is Haran, one of the quartermaster’s men for Bear Island. He has a shipment of weapons, and they’re due to set off through the Wolfswood—”

“You want to go back to Winterfell,” Bronn said flatly. He couldn’t believe it. After all they’d been through—it had very nearly killed both of them to get this far, and Jaime wanted to go _back?_

“Bronn,” Jaime said through his teeth, and gave an apologetic glance to the trader before getting to his feet and dragging Bronn over to the corner. “It’s my duty to go back,” he said, once they were out of earshot.

“What are you gonna do, then?” Bronn growled, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Slit your own throat outside the castle so it’ll look like you died in the battle like you were apparently destined to?”

“No, I—” Jaime cut himself off, his jaw clenching. “I _chose_ to be there on that battlefield."

"Aye, a great decision."

Jaime's face steeled over. "You think I didn’t know what would happen? I knew, and I was there anyway. What gives you the right to override my decision? You’re not my—” Jaime hesitated, and Bronn rolled his eyes.

“Your what? Your _father?_ ”

“ _No._ ”

Bronn frowned. “What, then? I’m not your _friend?”_ He could hear his voice taking on a dangerous edge, and didn’t care.

“No—” Jaime started, but Bronn spoke over him.

“Fuck you, Lannister. I don’t know how many times I’ve saved your fucking life. I saved you from the dragon. I saved you on the battlefield. I saved you again and again from the wights. Do I get anything in return? Even a little gratitude? No. Nothing. I got nothing from you the entire time I’ve known you. Lannisters always pay their debts, except to Bronn. That should be your new motto.”

“But I didn’t _ask_ you to do any of those things!”

“So what, I was meant to just let you die all those times? And I was meant to just be fine with that?”

Jaime’s voice was growing in volume to match Bronn’s. “I don’t know why you can’t understand there are no other possibilities for me. There’s no _future_ for me. I’ve disgraced my house, my family. Whichever side wins, neither will trust me—in fact both will probably want me killed after the fighting is over. Going down in battle is a far better option than—”

“Dying isn’t a good _option,_ Jaime. It’s death. I won’t let you.”

“You don’t get to _let me_ or not let me,” Jaime said through his teeth, his shoulders rigid. “I don’t want you here. I didn’t ask you to come.”

Bronn reached out to grab his shoulder. “Jaime—”

“Just fuck off, Bronn,” Jaime said harshly, shoving his hand away.

Even now, Bronn could see straight through Jaime’s words. He _knew_ Jaime didn’t really mean it. The problem was that _Jaime_ didn’t know that. His big, innocent eyes were a ridiculous giveaway. The worst thing was that Jaime truly believed that his only purpose in life now was to die in battle. And it didn’t look like anything Bronn said would change that. He wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Or hold him and tell him everything was going to be alright.

He elected to hit him.

He thought he felt Jaime’s nose break. His hand surely hurt enough from it.

_Good,_ he thought. _If he's a bit less pretty, it'll be a favour to everyone._ The bitter thought left a bad taste in his mouth. He spat on the ground.

“Fine,” he said. “If you’re determined to kill yourself, I’m not gonna stand around and watch.”

He walked away, the tavern’s patrons parting quickly for him on his way to the door.

 

Jaime returned to the room above the tavern and lay down in the bed. He didn’t move for the rest of the night or the entire next day. He sat up expectantly several times when he heard footsteps in the hallway, ready to bear the brunt of Bronn's anger and be dragged off to wherever he'd decided they should go next, but the steps always continued past his door. 

Jaime’s stomach finally motivated him strongly enough that he had to move. He winced at his reflection in the small mirror on the wall as he pulled on his gear. Bronn had turned his nose and both eyes purple and green. Jaime was still angry at him, but he couldn’t push aside the persistent thought that, although he’d argued so strongly about it, he _hadn’t_ actually taken up the trader’s offer to travel back to Winterfell. He’d just laid in bed all day, feeling paralysed.

He made his way downstairs to the kitchens and requested a meal, then went to sit by the fire in the tavern to wait. It was quiet; mid-afternoon. So Jaime couldn’t help noticing the tall man who stomped in through the doors and sat down, calling for an ale.

Jaime squinted. “Ser Jorah Mormont?”

The man looked around. Yes, it was definitely him. Jaime didn’t miss his hand closing over the pommel of his sword. “Ser Jaime Lannister,” he said, tilting his head. “What are you doing in a place like this?”

“Well, I’m certainly not here to cause you any trouble,” Jaime replied, looking pointedly at Jorah’s right hand.

Jorah paused. “I heard you turned your coat and fought in the battle for Winterfell,” he said neutrally.

“I’m sure it is terribly hard to believe, but that is that truth,” Jaime said tiredly.

Jorah examined him for several seconds before he finally relaxed his shoulders, let go of his sword hilt, and got up to join Jaime by the fire. “In that case, we are allies.”

Jaime let out a breath. He didn’t have the energy for a fight.

“Do you know the outcome of the battle?” he asked, when Jorah was settled.

The older man frowned. “There are mixed reports. The only consistent theme is that there were heavy losses on both sides. I don’t believe Winterfell still stands.”

“I see,” Jaime said with a wince.

“Forgive me, but weren’t you there? I know you assisted with the preparations. How did you come to be here?”

“My, er—my friend, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, he dragged me out after I got hit on the head and stunned. I wanted to return but he was certain the battle was already over. We continued west, through the Wolfswood, until we arrived here.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“I was sent to Bear Island several weeks ago by the Queen, on a special mission.”

Jaime nodded, but Jorah seemed distracted. “Forgive me, but—Bronn of the Blackwater, you said?”

“Yes, why?”

Jorah hesitated. “It’s just—I came from the south. There are several villages along the coast. And…”

“Yes?”

“Well, I did hear that a knight of that name had been arrested on a warrant. He was due to be hung at sunset.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr.](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/)


	4. The Coast

Jaime took the first horse he saw.

He would have thrown his entire purse of gold at the stable boy if he’d been there, but the stables were deserted, and no one stopped him.

He threw the saddle and bridle on, yelling out in frustration at how slow he was with one hand, and galloped off out of the town, balancing precariously on a loose girth. He didn’t spare the horse, but flogged it as hard as he could, going at a gallop all the way along the coastal road. The sun set. He refused to think about it. The moon was bright, lighting the path, but it kept blurring in front of him nevertheless.

He hadn’t stayed long enough to hear from Jorah just _which_ village he was talking about. He slowed down each time he approached a small fishing village, and then passed quickly through. They were too small; no militia or guards in sight.

He finally reached a more substantial town after daybreak. One with a guardstation. And a gallows.

Jaime froze in place when he saw it, and sat staring up at the platform for several seconds, his horse puffing under him. Then he jumped off and hurried into the building.

“Hello?” he called out as he pushed through the door, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual.

There was a guard to the left, slumped over his desk. He jolted awake at Jaime's voice.

“Can I help you?” the man asked blearily.

Jaime stared at him, suddenly unable to form the words. “Er—there were—h-hangings yesterday?”

“Aye,” the man said, watching him as though he thought Jaime was crazy.

“Who?” Jaime choked out, unable to say any more. The man shuffled through some papers, and handed a list to Jaime.

“Bunch of thieves, mostly,” he said tentatively. Jaime snatched the paper and his eyes had no trouble falling instantly on a roughly scratched name halfway down the list.

‘Bronn of Blackwater’.

Jaime wasn’t sure what happened after that. He only knew that he somehow left the guard station. He lost his horse. He wound up on the stony, icy beach, his forehead pressed against his knees.

He’d thought he’d stopped feeling anything, the past few weeks. Little did he know he had further, previously unexplored, depths to fall into. He felt like something was going to break its way out of his chest and shred him to pieces. He hadn’t felt this bad when his father died. Not even when Myrcella had died.

It was his fault Bronn was dead. If he hadn’t argued with him, if he hadn’t been so stupid, then maybe…

But he had. And now he was alone, and there was no point continuing. If he could just bring himself to move, he thought perhaps he could get up and walk directly forward, out into the water, and be carried out to sea, and that would be that.

But he couldn't move. He could barely even breathe.

It wasn’t until the sun was setting that he was disturbed. Footsteps approached from behind him, crunching on the shore. Jaime tried to gather something to say, something to at least stop him being thrown out of the town as a wandering vagrant, but his brain wasn’t working.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

A chill went through Jaime, like his whole body had just been dunked in the icy water. Spots of light flared in his vision before he managed to turn his head to face the person who had walked up behind him. It was Bronn.

Jaime lurched to his feet.

“But…”

He couldn’t breathe. Bronn was standing there with an amused grin gradually fading. Further up the beach, Jorah stood waiting with some other men.

“Th-they hung you,” he got out, sounding nothing like his regular voice.

Bronn gave a huff of laughter. “That lot? Nah. Switched my name for someone else’s. Picked the lock on the cell. Didn’t take long.” He sniffed dismissively.

Jaime genuinely felt like he might pass out.

“I thought you were dead,” he said tightly, trying to breathe right. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening to him. The gravel crunched as Bronn stepped closer and clapped a hand to his shoulder roughly. He grabbed Bronn’s elbow before he could let his arm drop away, fisting the leather of his sleeve tightly. 

“Not a nice feeling, is it?” Bronn said flatly, and Jaime stared at him, suddenly hit with the image of himself, through Bronn’s eyes, standing on that battlefield. Standing on that cliff. Saying he wanted to go back to Winterfell. Saying his only option was to die.

“N-no,” Jaime agreed. He felt dizzy. Bronn wasn’t dead. He was here; he was fine.

“Listen,” Bronn said brusquely, “I’ve been talking to your friend over there. They’re heading south on some secret mission. He seems interested in us tagging along. I’m not saying I want to get involved, but we can’t fucking stay here. Travelling in a group would be a lot easier, especially with this.”

Jaime struggled to follow what Bronn was saying, and looked down belatedly as he pulled a note from his pocket. He blinked hard, releasing Bronn’s sleeve and taking the crumpled paper, trying to focus enough to read it.

“A royal warrant,” Jaime said after a moment, glancing up at Bronn.

“Aye. And look who’s on it.”

Jaime scanned the list of names. Both of them.

“Reward on delivery of…” Jaime squinted. “Heads. Our heads.”

“Flattering for me, really, to be on the same list as you. Suppose your sister isn’t too impressed with either of us.”

With that, Bronn turned to go, and Jaime trailed after him back up the beach. A small inlet led from the coast towards the forest, and a few hundred metres along, Jorah and some other men had a campsite set up. He felt out of step, and struggled to concentrate on where they were going; on anything, really, except for Bronn... But he was unable to drag his gaze away from Bronn’s irritatedly hunched shoulders marching ahead of him, unable to believe he really was there, he really was fine.

When they reached the camp, Jaime felt suddenly exhausted, like he could sleep right now, but he forced himself to concentrate. He sat down by the fire with Jorah, once again, and felt like weeks had passed since they last spoke.

“I’m glad you found your friend,” Jorah said, his tone slightly curious, as he passed Jaime a bowl of stew. Jaime followed his gaze to where Bronn was already chatting amicably to the other men in Jorah’s group. “He is sworn to you?”

Jaime looked back at Jorah. “No,” he said quickly.

“A Lannister bannerman?”

“No…”

“A childhood friend, then?” Jorah guessed, frowning.

“Err, no. He’s just… Well, I pay him.” Jorah responded with nothing more than a skeptically raised eyebrow and Jaime backtracked. “Well, I used to.”

“Such loyalty is uncommon in times like these. You are lucky, Lannister.”

“Please, call me Jaime,” he said with a wince. He never used to mind titles, but these days his surname felt more like an insult.

Jorah nodded. “Very well. We are both on the same side in this war, Ser Jaime. My mission is to escort these men south, and I’m hoping you might join us. They are not skilled fighters, and the journey is dangerous. If you and your man can help me to protect them, I can offer fresh supplies, and meals on the journey, for as long as you travel with us.”

“What is the mission?” Jaime asked.

Jorah’s mouth drew into a thin line. “I’m not at liberty to say. It is a secret mission for Queen Daenerys.”

“A secret mission,” he repeated dully, nodding. By this point he barely cared. Bronn had said they should go with them; Jaime trusted him. He agreed to travel with Jorah for as long as they were able, and was relieved when Jorah left him alone, going to assist Bronn with finding some extra supplies from the piles of gear stacked by a train of sleeping donkeys.

Several minutes later, he was half-asleep where he sat when he heard raised voices.

He glanced up, watching as Jorah marched over to sort out an argument between two of the men. He settled it with some sharp words, and then returned to the fire.

“Problem?” Jaime asked.

“No. There is only one spare bedroll, so I told them to decide who among them would share.”

Jaime blinked. “For us?” he asked.

Jorah nodded. Jaime found himself shaking his head, and before he even realised what he was going to say, it was out of his mouth. “Bronn and I can share. It’s fine, we’re used to it. I don’t want to upset your men."

Jorah looked like he was going to refuse, so Jaime got to his feet and made his way over to speak to the men himself.

He didn’t know why he did it. He would never have been so accommodating in the past; what did he care if two other men he didn’t know had to share? But then again, they were going into the wilderness with this group; it wouldn’t be helpful if two of them already disliked him.

He returned across the camp with a single bedroll and an extra fur to go over it. His steps slowed as he got closer to where Bronn was packing up some supplies in a bag, trying to figure out what to say. Bronn looked up.

Jaime hefted the blankets in his arms. “We have to share,” he said, electing to leave out the part about him offering it.

Bronn just gave a shrug, as though he didn’t care either way, and Jaime stood there awkwardly as he finished packing up the bag.

However, after a moment Bronn stood, pulling the bag onto one shoulder, and took the pile of blankets from Jaime. Then he marched off, closer to the fire, wandering halfway around the edge before he found a spot he apparently liked, on the opposite side to most of the others.

He flicked the blankets out on the ground, then sat the bag down and opened it, digging inside.

“Got us some spare clothes.” He lifted out two bundled garments and passed them to Jaime. Jaime unfurled a tunic, holding it up.

“Will it fit?” Bronn prompted.

“I think so,” Jaime said.

“There’s soap in there as well,” Bronn added, rather satisfied. “We’ll be travelling like a couple of princes, compared to before.”

He stood and made quick work of shedding his outer layers. Jaime followed suit, feeling wooden, and slid into the bedroll after him. He bundled the spare clothes under his head as a pillow. Bronn did the same with the bag of supplies, slipping his dagger underneath that.

It was impossible not to touch; the roll was designed for one man. Two could fit, but not with any space between them.

“Too fuckin’ cold to sleep separately anyway,” Bronn muttered, his chest bumping against Jaime’s back, and Jaime liked it this way better anyway, so he just grunted. They had only rested sitting upright shoulder to shoulder during their dash through the Wolfswood, aside from that last night, but even still, the nearness of Bronn’s body was starting to feel familiar and soothing.

Bronn shifted around, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. Jaime lay stiffly still, feeling his heart rate pick up as his brain came to the foggy conclusion that he was about to say something.

"I really thought you were dead," he said in a low voice. 

"Well, I'm right here," Bronn said gruffly, his voice right in Jaime's ear.

Jaime shook his head slightly, determined to get it out. "No, but..." he took a breath. “That was what I planned to do to everyone else. Make them… worry about me, and… grieve for me. I don’t want to do that to any— to you. I just… I felt like… like I’d never be happy again.”

Bronn didn't reply for several seconds, and Jaime almost wondered if he'd fallen asleep. Then he spoke, his voice low and clear. “Do you feel like that now?”

“No,” Jaime replied. “I was happy you weren’t dead.”

“Me too.”

Jaime rolled back, shifting so he could see Bronn's face. He was grinning faintly.

“I didn’t mean those things I said.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t— I just—"

"I know, Jaime, it's alright."

“Will you… You said you were leaving.”

“Aye, I said that.”

Jaime swallowed. “Don’t leave.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think it’s possible for me to leave you anyway, cunt,” Bronn muttered, his grin half smirk and half confusion. “Was on my way back when I got caught up here.”

“You were?”

“Mm. Can’t leave a soft little highborn like you to fend for yourself, now, can I?”

Jaime was half asleep already when he felt Bronn slip an arm around his waist.

 

Jaime blinked awake.

It was still dark; surely hours before dawn. He was warm and relaxed. Bronn was still wrapped around his back comfortably, a warm, live presence. Jaime could feel his slow breathing.

In contrast, Jaime’s heart was going rather fast and it took him several seconds to figure out why he’d woken up. Then he shifted slightly and he felt it; his cock was rock hard and his breeches were moist.

_Fuck._ He carefully got his left hand down them to check, and confirmed what he suspected: he’d come in his own pants while sleeping, like a thirteen-year-old boy. He repressed a frustrated sigh and started to carefully extricate himself from the bedroll and Bronn’s arms without waking the other man. The practicalities took over his thoughts; he would need to wash out his breeches, but it would look strange to Bronn and the others if they woke up and found Jaime had been up in the middle of the night just to do that; he would need to wash everything and just pass it off as a fussy high-born thing. Bronn would certainly have no trouble believing that. He grabbed his spare set of clothes, and carefully slid his arm into the top of the bag under Bronn's head, feeling around until his hand closed over the promised bar of soap. Then he quietly hurried away from the camp and down to the stream.

He stripped off, and quickly dunked everything in the water, squatting naked on the riverbank like a Fleabottom washerwoman as he feverishly scrubbed the crotch of his breeches with the soap. Only once he was rinsing everything out and ringing it as thoroughly as possible did he let his mind finally address the question of _what the fuck was going on?_

He hadn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager. He ran over the possibilities. He supposed he hadn’t given his sexual needs, such as they were, any attention for the past several weeks, at least. Perhaps his body was just overdue for some attention. But that couldn’t be right; he had gone a long time without anyone, including himself, touching him in the past, and this had never happened. When he was a prisoner, for example, he went over a year like that. He had never been particularly controlled by his own desires in that respect.

He tried to remember what he’d been dreaming about, as he splashed the icy cold water over himself, lathering the soap over his groin and inner thighs to eliminate any smell. Then he sat back on a rock. He barely even felt cold, his whole body was so flushed with embarrassment. 

He had definitely dreamed about _something_ , but in his frantic rush to hide the evidence he’d lost any remaining tendrils of the dream. He had a general impression of warmth, and… comfort, perhaps.

He glanced down between his legs and frowned when he realised he was hard again, despite the freezing cold air. Sighing, he closed a hand over himself and started to stroke, thinking he may as well get it out of his system now, while he had the chance.

He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done this, specifically, but Cersei had always, his whole life, been the place his mind would immediately go to whenever he took himself in hand. Now, however, his mind revolted away from that. He didn’t want to think about Cersei, and certainly not while trying to get off; not anymore.

Another woman, then. He thought through possibilities. He might have done it with Brienne in mind, once or twice, more recently. But that wouldn’t work either. They had both given it a go; they spent plenty of time together before the battle, and they even tried a kiss. But they had both drawn back from it with smirks on their faces, knowing that it had done nothing more than solidify the fact that, whatever they both liked to think might be convenient, there was no way they could be anything but good friends. No, thinking about Brienne wouldn’t do anything to help this along.

He sighed, still lazily stroking himself. He was rock hard, that wasn’t going away, but Jaime wasn’t a person who could get off on physical sensation alone; he needed something in his head to go with it. He let his mind wander, going over the events of the previous day and the journey mapped out ahead of him.

He did need to get this out of his system now, if possible. He certainly didn’t want it to happen again; he might not be so lucky as to be near a stream next time. And if Bronn found out… He imagined the delighted look on his friend’s face if he knew. Jaime would never hear the end of it. Bronn would think it was the funniest thing that had ever happened. Jaime’s lips curled into a small smile at the thought of it. He definitely didn’t want to give Bronn this kind of ammunition, but in general, he truly didn’t mind Bronn teasing him. Sometimes he felt like Bronn was the only person in the world who saw him as he truly was, not through the lens of his past actions, or his titles, or his family. Even after all Jaime put him through in the past few weeks.

He tried not to think about all the things he’d said to Bronn, all their arguments. He felt a stab of guilt in his chest at just the nearness of those thoughts. He didn’t want to think about that now. But he could remember how Bronn had kept coming back for him, despite everything he said. Jaime didn’t think he’d ever had a friend so loyal. Bronn seemed to be doing it in spite of his better judgment, which Jaime didn’t really understand. He certainly wouldn’t have blamed Bronn for leaving him for good at any point. But he hadn’t. And he’d saved Jaime’s life more times than he could count.

He remembered Bronn stripping his wet clothes off after the river. Jaime had genuinely thought he might die there, in the middle of the Wolfswood, but Bronn had been so in control, so confident. Keeping Jaime awake. Building the fire. Peeling off his clothes. Lying him down by the fire. Holding him. Jaime had wanted to be closer to him that night, in a way he didn’t really understand. He’d put his head on Bronn’s powerful chest. Held him tightly, breathed in his scent. Bronn had been gentle, and his hands had rubbed life back into Jaime’s skin…

Jaime came suddenly. He gasped, coming back to the present after a bright flare of pleasure, blinking down at himself. He gave a few more feeble pumps, watching his seed trickle down the side of the rock. He was breathing heavily.

_Bronn._ Jaime had just come rather hard while thinking about Bronn. He wanted to deny it to himself, tried to see how it was unrelated. But he couldn’t deny that Bronn _did_ elicit feelings inside him.

When had _this_ started? Jaime had no idea. With this realisation, his brain was already unhelpfully conjuring up the image of Bronn, half-undressed, his full attention on Jaime, touching him... If he’d ever had a thought like that in the past, it would have done nothing for him. But now he couldn’t deny the faint pleasant twist in his stomach that it gave him, or the fact that he _wanted_ to think about that.

Jaime had had similar feelings for men in the past, but he’d never acted on them. He had only ever been with Cersei. No one else.

And then came the next, inevitable thought: Bronn liked _women_. Jaime doubted he would have any interest in men. Then again… he didn’t know that for certain.

He crushed the faint glimmer of possibility in his mind as soon as it appeared. There was no point going down that train of thought. Even if Bronn _was_ interested, now wasn’t exactly an appropriate time to be starting up any kind of relationship. It would only make everything more difficult. No, he would just have to ignore these feelings.

He reached for the soap to clean himself off a second time, and then changed into his dry clothes.

 

Jaime slid back into the bedroll with Bronn, hoping not to wake him, but when he got close he realised Bronn’s eyes were half open.

“Where’d you go?” he asked sleepily, lifting his arm to give Jaime room to slide in.

Jaime hesitated before answering. “I fancied a wash.”

“In the middle of the night?” Bronn muttered. Jaime decided that was rhetorical as Bronn settled his arm around Jaime’s waist and pulled him back against him into their usual position. Then, he pressed his nose against Jaime’s neck and breathed in.

“You smell nice,” he mumbled, his mouth moving against Jaime’s skin, and Jaime’s _problem_ returned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^


	5. The Rills

“So, you _really_ woke up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming urge to go wash your clothes?”

Bronn had already asked the question three times, and he was hoping Jaime would crack and finally tell him the truth. Instead, the blonde just rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to their surroundings as they walked.

Despite that, Jaime looked far less irritated than usual. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that his belly was full with a warm breakfast, it had _finally_ stopped snowing, and they knew that for the next few days they were travelling south along the edge of the Wolfswood and into the Rills, and watching for wights. It was a nice to have some relief from all the uncertainty.

He had half-woken when Jaime got up last night, and wondered foggily if he was going down to the stream to drown himself. But that didn’t seem right, not after his little speech that evening. So he let him be, and tried to ignore how much it pleased him to see Jaime happier today than he had been ever since Winterfell. He seemed almost normal again.

Bronn would’ve got himself almost hung a long time ago if he’d known it’d have this effect.

…Not that it remotely mattered to Bronn what mood the spoiled little shit was in. Why should he care? He still fully intended to ditch the highborn prat as soon as they got somewhere closer to civilisation. Well, _first_ Bronn would find a woman—and he _wouldn’t_ be having any ridiculous _problems_ this time—and then he was making straight for White Harbour.

There was no reason for him to hang around and see just what kind of hell Westeros will fall into in the coming months. _Jaime_ certainly wasn’t a reason. What would Bronn do, just follow him around like a loyal dog for the rest of his days? _Ridiculous._

Sure, he’d told Jaime he wasn’t leaving. Of course he’d said that. But he _definitely_ was.

Just not yet.

For now there was no point thinking about any of it. He needed to keep his head in the game, and get this lot a bit further south without any of them becoming fodder for roaming wights. The monsters could be anywhere. He was under no illusions that they were any safer out here in the Rills than they had been while travelling through the Wolfswood. If Winterfell had fallen—and it sounded like it had—then the army of the dead was likely making themselves nice and comfortable there and swelling their numbers twofold again with all the corpses left behind on that battlefield.

Stupid buggers never should have tried to make a stand there.

“What do you think of this lot, then?” Bronn asked, nodding at the rest of the group. They were trailing a distance behind, guarding the rear, while the most competent of the other men scouted ahead over the hilly, barren landscape.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Jaime said in a low voice. “Mormont says it’s top secret, but my guess is this is an escort mission.”

“Who’re we escorting?”

“That’s the question.”

Bronn ran a hand over his beard. “Well, there are nine of ‘em. One’s the cook, and one’s the lad in charge of the donkeys. The rest are supposed to be able to fight, though three of ‘em look too young and skinny to even lift a sword, and two look far too old.”

“I can understand why Jorah wanted extra help,” Jaime agreed.

“Aye. Two of ‘em are proper fighters—those ones I put up front.”

“You’re in charge now, are you?”

Bronn glanced over at Jaime’s slightly amused expression. “Hey, I’ll have you know your brother says I have ‘natural leadership skills’.”

“ _Does_ he?” Jaime replied. “Was that before or after you got fired from your post as Commander of the City Watch?”

“If I hadn’t stepped down from that position, I wouldn’t have had the time to give you sword lessons, now would I? And then where would we be?”

“They weren’t _sword lessons,”_ Jaime groaned. “It was just _sparring.”_

“Oh aye,” Bronn grinned, then it faded as he watched Jaime’s face. “Should’ve taught you better, shouldn’t I? Then maybe you wouldn’t have let an old cunt like me break your nose.” Jaime’s face was still blotted purple and green where Bronn had hit him. He felt an unfamiliar stab of guilt.

“It’s not broken,” Jaime said, looking away.

Bronn stepped in front of Jaime, halting his steps, and lifted his hands to run his thumbs down the darkened skin on either side of Jaime’s nose, feeling carefully for anything out of place. Jaime was right, it didn’t seem to be broken, but he noticed Jaime’s breath catch. It must still be painful.

“I’ll see if they’ve got something for it in the supplies.”

“It’s fine,” Jaime said, avoiding Bronn’s gaze and stepping around him to continue after the group.

Bronn followed, swallowing the apology that almost made it past his lips. Why the fuck would he want to apologise?  _Ridiculous._

 

Late afternoon, Jaime stretched his arms over his head, and Bronn glanced sideways to watch his too-short jerkin lift at the bottom, revealing a sliver of skin over his hip. Then he slumped down again.

“I’m hungry. Do you think we’ll stop soon?”

“Hope so,” Bronn said, checking the sun. His stomach was rumbling too. The day had been uneventful; just the way Bronn liked it. But he knew better than to let his guard down.

They reached a spot where the ground dipped down into what might have once been a creek bed; an ideal spot to camp. It would provide a little protection from the wind and any prying eyes; if there even was a living soul anywhere near here, which Bronn doubted.

One of the skinny lads went into the Wolfswood to collect firewood. Bronn was just starting to think about finding the bedroll from amongst the supplies being unloaded from the donkeys and having a nap while he waited for dinner, when there was a shout.

He looked towards the trees. The lad who’d gone in there was coming at a sprint back towards the campsite, flinging his armful of firewood loose as he ran. Bronn drew his sword before the wights even appeared, lumbering out of the trees after the boy.

Jaime appeared beside him as he jumped back up over the bank, hurrying forward to put themselves between the oncoming monsters and the campsite. Jorah and every other man who carried a sword hurried after them.

Bronn counted as the wights emerged from the trees. Ten, fifteen… he felt his heart sinking as their numbers grew, but they stopped at about twenty—they could handle this many. Probably.

He threw his left hand out to Jaime’s chest and pushed him backwards, hard, just before the first of the wights met them. Bronn took the first two down with one swing each, his sword shattering them to pieces. He noted quickly that the other men in the group had dragonglass swords too; that was something. Jaime joined him again, and Bronn couldn’t spare the hand to shove him behind again, so just kept him in his peripheral vision, uneasy with Jaime's level of ability.

Someone yelled out in pain; Bronn’s head snapped around, as one of the older men was overwhelmed with three wights at once. He took a step in his direction, then realised he wouldn’t make it in time, as the man’s cries pitched higher and then cut off with a gurgle. He returned his attention to the last of the monsters completing their shambling run across the open grass between the trees and the camp.

One of them avoided his sword, screaming irritatingly, until Bronn put his boot to the thing’s chest, shoved it backwards, and then impaled it as it charged forwards again. Then he turned to help the other men finish off the remaining monsters.

When it was all done, they’d only lost the one man, and one of the lads had a nasty cut. Aside from that they were okay.

“Better burn him, or we’ll be seeing him again,” Jorah directed, once they were sure the older man was dead. He glanced towards the trees. “I’ll check to make sure there are no more lurking—” he cut off.

“Fuck,” Bronn spat. More wights were coming. As many again, possibly more. Bronn steeled himself, gripping his sword.

The fight became scrappier, less clean than the first round. His focus narrowed down to only himself and the immediate space around him, until he was distracted when he noticed the donkey lad, crouching on the grass behind them.

“Get back, lad,” he called out. The boy ignored him, crouching there cagily, watching the fight.

Bronn couldn’t spare any more attention. Jaime was holding his own, barely. Bronn put his back to Jaime and they fought them off, but more kept coming from the woods.

“We need a new plan,” Jaime yelled over his shoulder.

“I’m out of ideas,” Bronn yelled back. He was about ready to run for it, and see how far they got, Jorah and his escort mission be damned, when he heard Jaime gasp.

He spun, thinking it was the sound of a knife in his guts, but there were no enemies immediately nearby. He wasn’t gasping from pain.

Back behind them, a fire was growing. But it was the strangest fire Bronn had ever seen. It grew larger—alarmingly larger—and it wasn’t the right shape for a flame. It was like it was upside down, with a bulbous head, and as he watched, darker red spots flared in the middle, like—

“Eyes,” Jaime breathed. Bronn nodded, and they both watched with dropped jaws as the flame creature grew to a huge size, three times the size of a man, and then proceeded to destroy the wights. One by one it engulfed them, floating across the little battlefield with no apparent source of movement except for pure magic, arms of flame shooting out to grab them as they tried to attack. They couldn’t touch the flame being; they melted and disintegrated as soon as it came near, screeching in pain.

Within half a minute, they were all gone.

They watched the flame creature return to the place where it grew; behind everyone, where the donkey lad was squatting.

“What the…” Bronn muttered, as the creature suddenly shrank, sucked quickly into nothingness again, and behind it was the lad, holding up a bright red stone.

Bronn turned to share a glance with Jaime, but the other man had disappeared. Before Bronn realised what was happening, Jaime had charged over and grabbed the lad by the collar, shoving him down into the dirt.

“Ser Jaime—” Jorah called warningly, hurrying over.

“What the fuck, Jaime?” Bronn exclaimed, trying to figure out what he’d missed.

“This _boy_ is an pyromancer,” Jaime spat, and he was cutting off the lad’s air with the force of his grip. Bronn knew about pyromancers—he’d met plenty, back when he was working for Tyrion.

“Alright, so what? Let him go, Jaime.”

“I’d advise you to follow your man’s advice,” Jorah said with steely calm, his sword still drawn, the tip pointed at the ground, his body tense. Bronn knew who the escort was now.

Jaime didn’t seem likely to budge, but when Bronn stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, he sighed and let the lad go. Bronn grabbed his elbow and pulled him back several steps.

“What’s the matter?” he muttered under his breath, trying to meet Jaime’s gaze, but Jaime just shook his head.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were escorting a _pyromancer?_ ” Jaime spat at Jorah.

“I was sworn to secrecy,” Jorah replied flatly. “And now that you know, I must ask you not to spread the secret further.”

“Anyone in a range of a hundred miles’ll know about it now,” Bronn muttered, glancing around the barren hills.

Jorah nodded briskly. “We should move on. Pitt, Liam— find the donkeys, they can’t have run far.”

“Wait just a minute,” Jaime said, snagging Jorah’s sleeve as he turned to leave. “We don’t get any more than that?”

“If you’re unhappy with the situation, you’re free to leave us at any time,” Jorah, said, steely.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Bronn spoke up. “Jaime, if there are more of those things lurking in the forest, we can’t hold off fifty of them ourselves.”

Jaime spoke through his teeth. “I’m not _helping_ a pyromancer—”

“Have I hurt you, Ser Jaime?”

Bronn turned. The lad was wiping ash off his face and stalking over. His voice was oddly out of sync with his appearance, Bronn thought. Far too serious and mature for a lad so small and skinny. He couldn’t be older than… 18? Surely.

“I said, have I hurt you, Ser Jaime?” the lad asked, reaching them, and standing with feet planted and arms folded, the pose of someone much larger and more confident.

Jaime seemed incapable of responding, his eyes just about bulging out of his head with anger at this boy.

“No, lad, you haven’t hurt him,” Bronn sighed.

“My _name_ is Wisdom Reinhart of the High Guild of Alchemists,” the boy spat at Bronn, who couldn’t restrain the grin that crossed his face.

“Alright, alright, Wisdom— what was it? Wisdom Redhead? Come on, say what you’re gonna say then, lad.”

“It’s Wisdom _Reinhart,_ and I’m an _alchemist,_ not a _pyromancer_.”

“Is there a difference?” Bronn asked mildly, letting go of Jaime when it seemed like he wasn’t about to charge off again.

“Pyromancers are poor imitators,” the lad said stiffly, tucking his bright red stone carefully away in a pouch. “They learned the secret of wildfire, and now they sell their abilities to the highest bidder. Alchemists can do so much more.”

“Like summoning fire monsters,” Bronn said, with some approval, and didn’t miss Jaime’s annoyed eye roll. “So why are you getting escorted south, lad? What are you gonna do, blow up King’s Landing?”

“I don’t give a shit about King’s Landing. I’m here to help the people of Westeros by stopping the Night King. I don’t care about any of your stupid politics.”

“And we’re not going to discuss the mission,” Jorah cut in pointedly, sliding his sword back into its sheath. The red-haired lad huffed and turned to stalk off.

Bronn cocked his head at Jorah. “So, you’re not gonna blow up King’s Landing, but you’re heading there. There’s something there you need. Since you’ve got a pyro— sorry, _alchemist_ along with you, I think I know what that is.”

Jorah’s eyes widened and he suddenly grabbed Bronn’s arm, dragging him further away from the campsite.

“I think I’ve figured out the secret mission, Jaime—” Bronn said loudly, enjoying Jorah’s huff of frustration as he pushed Bronn away from him once they were out of earshot of the others. Jaime followed after them, waiting for the explanation.

“Alright, alright,” Jorah said, with irritation. “Now just listen. My mission is to escort Wisdom Reinhart south, to King’s Landing. He carries a message from the High Grand Master of alchemists, an authority above and beyond the pyromancer currently working for Cersei. The High Grand Master recognises the threat of the dead, and has ordered all wildfire to be provided to the cause of those fighting them. All the alchemists in King’s Landing are duty bound to follow the orders he brings from the High Grand Master. The Queen has a plan to lace the marshes at the Neck with wildfire, and lure the army of the dead across before setting it alight. It’s the best plan we have for killing the Night King.”

Jaime nodded slowly. “That’s not a bad plan,” he said begrudgingly.

“How d’you plan on getting all that wildfire all the way from King’s Landing to the Neck?” Bronn asked. “It doesn’t travel well.”

“You have experience with it?” Jorah asked.

“Some.”

Jorah shrugged. “Reinhart thinks he can do it."

Jaime caught Bronn’s eye for a second before replying. “Why not just tell us this yesterday?”

“Because I need your help. You’ve seen these men fight, now—I need your help if we’re attacked again.” He was looking right at Jaime as he said this, and Bronn narrowed his eyes.

“Reinhart has to make it to King’s Landing,” Jorah continued. “The fate of Westeros depends on it, and the Queen will reward anyone who helps.”

It seemed to work on Jaime. His whole stance changed. Bronn repressed an eye roll as the two of them nodded in understanding.

They turned back towards the camp, but Bronn grabbed Jorah’s arm, holding him firmly in place.

“You need _Jaime_ to fight, do you?” Bronn said in a low voice, watching Jaime walk off ahead of them. “You’ve noticed his missing hand, right?”

“I didn’t mean him," Jorah said mildly. "I meant you. You fight better than the rest of the men combined.”

“I know,” Bronn scowled. “But I’m not his _servant._ We don’t come as a _package._ Convincing him to stay doesn’t mean you get me.”

Jorah gave him a long, appraising look. “I have served Queen Danaerys for years,” he said slowly. “I love her, though I know I will never have her. I’ve made my peace with that.” He paused. “Have you?”

Bronn clenched his jaw and couldn’t come up with a response quick enough before Jorah turned away with a meaningful look.

Bronn gave a great sigh and followed after Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^


	6. Torrhen's Square

“What’s your problem with pyromancers, then?”

After the skirmish with the wights, they didn’t stop, and instead hurried on through the freezing night, hoping to put distance between themselves and the enemy. Jaime had been sullenly silent ever since the conversation with Jorah, and Bronn was tired of marching along in the darkness with nothing but his own circling thoughts.

“Don’t mind them, myself,” he continued on when Jaime didn’t reply. “They won the battle that got me knighted, after all. Creepy lot, but useful in a pinch.”

He glanced across. Jaime was frowning resolutely at his boots as he trudged along, so set that Bronn wasn’t sure he'd even heard. He bumped against him with his shoulder. “Hey. You sleepwalking or something?”

Jaime gave a slight jolt and looked up at Bronn, his steps faltering for a moment.

“What?”

Bronn took a stab. “The Mad King liked wildfire, didn’t he? How old did you say you were when you went into his service?”

“Sixteen,” Jaime replied, warily.

Bronn nodded. “Not a nice thing to see at sixteen. Is that why you hate pyromancers so much?”

Jaime’s expression slammed closed. He put his head down and picked up his speed, putting distance between them.

Bronn let him go, watching his hunched shoulders thoughtfully.

 

Someone handed around strips of jerky to keep them going. It still wasn’t as bad as when they fled through the Wolfswood, but Bronn didn’t appreciate the reminder so soon.

They travelled through dawn and into the day. They became slower and slower as the men grew tired, and Jorah called a halt mid-afternoon. They hadn’t seen a single other person, living or dead, the whole time.

Jaime went off into the trees when they stopped, probably to take a piss (if Bronn needed to go, he’d do it in front of the entire group if necessary, and if anyone wanted to look he figured that was more their issue than his). But Jaime hated being seen. He wandered over to where the cook was getting the campfire going and slumped down next to Jorah.

He’d been annoyed at the old man for his comments—for about five minutes. That was yesterday; water under the bridge as far as Bronn was concerned. Besides, they had something in common.

“Pretty, is she, the Dragon Queen?” he asked.

Jorah raised an eyebrow at him. “You didn’t see her at the meeting?

“From a distance, as I was leaving.”

Jorah nodded slowly. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Bronn shrugged, tugging his boots off. “Didn’t want to get involved.” He glanced over at Jorah ruefully. “That went well, didn’t it?”

The older man gave half a smile.

The cook went back to the line of donkeys for more supplies, and Bronn glanced around. For the moment, there was no one within earshot. “Why did you?”

Jorah tilted his head.

“Why do you hang around," Bronn elaborated, "if you know she’ll never have you?”

Jorah sighed. “Because I believe in her,” he said. “And I want to be there to protect her, should anything go wrong—”

“Ah,” Bronn cut in, with a grin. “So you haven’t _completely_ given up hope, then? You’re still waiting in the wings, just in case?”

Jorah didn’t grace that suggestion with an answer, but a moment later he said, “And you? Do you have any hope?”

“Nah,” Bronn said gruffly. “I’m heading for White Harbour as soon as we get somewhere safer.”

Jorah chewed his cheek for a moment. “He was in the Kingsguard, wasn’t he?”

“Aye.”

“...You know what they say about the Kingsguard; the ones who join are men who aren’t actually giving something up.”

Bronn scowled. “They may say that. They also say _certain things_ about the way the war of the five kings got going.”

The fact that Jaime _had_ been with a woman was a pretty major factor. Jaime had never admitted it to him point-blank, but he didn’t need to. The point was, Jaime’s sexual preference was _plenty_ clear.

Jorah shrugged. “Well, the rumours say—”

He cut off.

Bronn's heart sunk as he caught the noise too. He didn’t bother looking over his shoulder, he just focussed on getting his boots back on as fast as possible.

This time, there were far more wights than before.

It was immediately obvious that the monsters must have been following along behind them, biding their time and building their numbers, before they decided to attack again. There were so many that there was no point trying to stand and fight. Jaime almost crashed into Bronn as he jumped to his feet, and then they were running.

The whole group ran for it.

They left the donkeys behind. They left all their supplies. Bronn didn't know how they could survive this one.

They ran, over the rolling hills, into the setting sun. The wights loped along relentlessly behind, but not quickly. Gradually, as time passed, they gained some ground. Bronn kept looking over his shoulder, trying to judge the timings. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever. He was fit, but not _this_ fit.

Finally, they paused at the crest of a hill to catch their breaths when the wights were a fair distance behind them.

Jorah looked to Reinhart as they all staggered to a halt.

“Can you—”

“No. It’s too soon," the boy said. "The stone needs more time.”

“If we can… distract them long enough…” Jorah gasped at Bronn, hands on his knees, “Give Reinhart enough time to re-energise the stone…”

“We don’t need his help,” Jaime cut in fiercely. “We must be close to Torrhen’s Square. We should just keep going.”

“Jaime, fuck!” Bronn growled. “This isn’t the time to be turning down options.”

One of the older men who had been lagging behind came past, wheezing loudly. “Keep moving!” he grunted as he passed them.

Bronn glanced behind. The wights were gaining. They started off running again. The group quickly spread out according to their various speeds, the red-haired alchemist up the front, Jaime and Bronn not far behind him, and the rest of the men trailing along after.

“Seriously… What have you got… against alchemists anyway?” Bronn muttered at Jaime between puffs. “I know Aerys used them… but they were just doing what they were fuckin’ told… same as everyone… what’s your problem?”

Sweat was rolling down Jaime's face. “Yes, they were doing what they were told,” he spat. “Lacing the entire city with caches of wildfire. So obedient. They would have done it too. They were _about_ to do it.”

“About to do what?” Bronn growled back. Jaime didn’t reply. Bronn’s exhausted brain took time to process Jaime’s words. Lacing the city with caches of wildfire… to what? Blow it up?

Bronn drew to a halt again, leaning on his knees, puffing hard. Jaime paused, looking back at him, as the other men overtook them.

“The… the entire city?”

Jaime nodded stiffly.

“You stopped them?”

Jaime’s gaze was now fixed on his boots.

“Is that when you killed him? To stop him blowing up the city?”

Jaime nodded again, shortly.

For a moment, Bronn felt like the world rocked under him.

“I always thought you killed him, you know, to help your father out. And ‘cause he was a cunt. I never knew you were stopping him from—” Bronn paused. “How come no one knows about this? How come people call you 'kingslayer' like it’s a bad thing?”

Jaime’s lips were pursed tight and he didn’t answer. So that could only mean… “No one believed you?”

Pieces were falling into place for Bronn. Jaime’s entire confusing personality… Half honourable noble night and half arrogant spoiled brat… It made sense. He’d been acting up to a terrible misapprehension ever since he was sixteen.

“Fuck, Jaime.”

Jaime looked away, chewing his lip.

“I killed the pyromancer to stop him,” Jaime said. “I hunted down the rest of them. I thought I got all of them.”

Bronn shook his head slightly. He didn’t give a shit about the pyromancers anymore. “They should be calling you the saviour of the city, not the kingslayer.”

“I don’t care what people think of me,” Jaime said sullenly.

“Do you care what I think of you?” he shot back.

Jaime’s eyes darted back to Bronn’s. Bronn wasn’t sure he would answer, but was pleased when Jaime breathed, “Yes.”

Bronn almost kissed him. He even felt his muscles engage, ready to surge forward and grab him. It would have been perfect. Jaime’s face was turned toward him, open and vulnerable. He could have kissed him and he could’ve shown him just what it was like to be properly kissed.

But he didn’t. Or couldn’t. If Jaime didn’t want it—and, Bronn needed to face it, he probably didn’t—then that would be the end of it. Jaime wouldn’t want Bronn following around after him anymore. He didn’t know why Daenerys put up with Jorah, but he doubted Jaime would be so accommodating. And Bronn wasn’t ready to risk that, yet.

Jorah caught up to them, hurrying past.

“No time to stop,” he panted.

Jaime turned and jogged after him. Bronn followed on shaky legs.

“Well,” Bronn gasped, when Jorah was out of earshot again, “ _I’m_ certainly glad you saved the city. I was there that day, I remember. Jumped into someone’s yard and hid out with their dogs all night until the fuss died down. Fleabottom would’ve gone up like straw. You saved _my_ life.”

Jaime didn't answer, because a second later Reinhart, up ahead, gave a shout. They ran to catch up with him, and from the top of the next hill they could see turrets in the distance. 

"Torrhen's Square!" Jorah puffed. "Hurry!"

Bronn sure hoped the keep was equipped to deal with the volume of wights they were about to bring down on them. They got close enough to the castle that they came across a small patrol. Soldiers in a red uniform. The men sent up an alarm when they spotted the ragged group of men running toward them, before they even saw the wights.

As he got closer, Bronn realised he recognised the uniform. These were Lannister soldiers. The men tried to stop them, but when they saw the wights coming, their priorities shifted. Bronn and Jorah led the others past them, over a rough road, into a marshy swamp, and there they all collapsed.

"Those aren't soldiers who will be inclined to help us," Bronn said.

"The ones who saw us won't survive this fight," Jorah replied, confident.

" _We_ might not survive this fight," Bronn shot back.

"Look," Jaime interrupted. The gates of the keep were opening, and reinforcements streamed out. Bronn lay in the mud and watched through the tall grass as they slowly but surely hacked through the wights. 

"We can't just sit here," he muttered. "And we can't just go around the keep, either. We don't have food, water, supplies..."

"I know," Jorah replied. 

“I’ll be your prisoner,” Jaime said quickly.

Jorah and Bronn both turned to look at him.

_“What?”_ Bronn whispered back.

“They won’t recognise either of you. Make up some names and say you caught me and you want the reward. You still have that warrant note, don’t you?”

Bronn grimaced. “Yeah, but Jaime, that’s a bad idea. It says to hand in your _head._ They might kill you.”

“They won’t. Anyway, it won’t be for long. This company will simply be occupying the keep. Their commander won't be anyone very intelligent; _trust me_. Once you’re inside, you just have to threaten him or get leverage on him somehow, and make him take his men and leave.”

“Jaime…”

“It’s a good plan,” Jorah put in. He glanced at the Reinhart. “You stay here with the rest of the men. We'll find you once the keep is secured."

Reinhart nodded.

“Quickly," Jaime said, "there isn’t much time. Tie me up.”

Jorah nodded and reached for his scabbard, unwrapping a strip of leather tied around it.

“I don’t like this idea,” Bronn said, reluctantly taking Jaime’s sword and coin purse as he handed them over. He frowned when Jaime reached under the collar of his tunics.

“Here,” he said, snapping the ring off the string around his neck and passing it to Bronn. “Take care of this for me.”

Bronn screwed his face up. “Jaime, I don’t want to do this.”

Jaime grabbed Bronn’s hand. Bronn didn’t resist as Jaime slid the ring onto his finger. “Don’t lose it.”

Bronn sighed as Jorah passed him the leather rope.

"I won't," he said, and tied Jaime's hands.

The three of them nodded at each other, and then carefully got to their feet in the dark swamp and returned to the road. They made their way towards the soldiers, who were finishing off the final few wights. When they got closer, Bronn took a deep breath, meeting Jaime’s eye one more time, before he yelled out.

“Hurry up, you fucker!”

He tugged Jaime harshly forward with the rope.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you before we even hand you over. Come on, Harris.”

Jorah hurried over, grabbing Jaime's arm and hauling him along. Bronn glanced towards the soldiers. They had definitely heard the commotion. He didn’t wait for them to make assumptions.

“Oi! Over here!” he yelled, waving his arm at them. Two of the red-uniformed men broke away from the group and approached them, hands on their swords.

“My name’s Cooper,” he said out of the side of his mouth to Jorah.

“Right,” Jorah muttered back.

“You lot from Torrhen’s Square?” Bronn asked when the soldiers got within talking distance.

“Aye. Who are you? Who’s this?”

“This,” Bronn said with a proud flourish, “Is the one and only Jaime Lannister. There’s a bounty on ‘im, and I’m here to collect.”

“How d’you know it’s him?” one of the guards asked suspiciously, jabbing his spear in Jaime’s direction.

“Found him with plenty of gold, for one thing,” Jorah put in. He couldn’t roughen his accent quite as much as Bronn could, but it was still passable.

“Aye,” Bronn agreed. “And he’s got the Lannister look, eh? Pretty and golden-haired. And he’s missing a hand.”

“I’m not Jaime Lannister!” Jaime suddenly exclaimed. He did the opposite; he put his posh voice on to the extreme, so that his complaint sounded ridiculous. “You’ve got the wrong fellow. I’m just a trader from Bear Island—”

“Shut it, Lannister.”

“Where’s his golden hand, then?” the second guard asked, wandering closer to inspect the prisoner.

“It’s right there,” Jorah said, pointing to Jaime’s bound wrists. “Clear as day.”

The guard pulled Jaime’s wrists up by the rope to tug his gloves aside, inspecting his hands closely. He hummed. “Any man could just buy one of these.”

“Any man—” Bronn scoffed, cutting off with a shake of his head. “Do you know how much it’d cost to get one of them made? More than any _northern trader_ earns in his lifetime, I’d wager. It’s fully gold-plated, and look at the detail! This is the Lannister alright, no question about it. And we found him,” he added with a hard edge, looking from one guard to another. “So you boys take us to the commander. We just want our reward, and then you lot can look like heroes for handing him over to the Queen.”

The guards glanced at each other and Bronn felt his finger twitch as he resisted the urge to close his hand around his dagger, just in case—but it worked. One shrugged and the other gave a sniff.

“Alright then, let’s go.”

“C’mon, Lannister, walk,” Bronn ordered, seizing Jaime’s rope again and tugging him forward.

They marched off, the five of them, away from Reinhart and the others, the two guards never suspecting a thing. The castle loomed ahead of them in the darkness.

“What’d I tell ya, Harris?” Bronn said in a quiet voice, but loud enough the guards could hear. “Knew we’d make it.”

“Remember our agreement,” Jorah said. “I get two-thirds.”

Gods, the old man was good at this game. 

“Aye, I fuckin’ know, you don’t have to keep reminding me. Though you’re doing an old friend a very bad turn indeed. You know I was drunk that night.”

“If a man can’t handle his drink, he’d be wiser not to do so," Jorah replied smugly.

“Whatever, old man.”

“We’re nearly there,” one of the guards said over his shoulder. “We’ll take you through the guards’ entrance. No point creating a stir by dragging him through the streets.”

Bronn hid a delighted smile. Good. They were already being exposed to alternative entry points.

The guards led them through a smaller door within the main gateway, into a mustering room stacked with weapons.

While the two guards were distracted with explaining to their superior who the three extras were, Bronn risked a glance back at Jaime. Jaime met his eyes briefly, and he still had that fierce, determined glint. He was alright so far. Bronn was more concerned about what would happen next.

“Alright, we’ll take you to the commander. It’s up to him to decide what to do.”

“He better not try to steal our reward,” Bronn muttered, gripping the rope tightly and following the guards through the next doorway and into a tunnel within the walls. He kept track of each turn they made, climbing higher and at some point crossing into the keep, and before long they were emerging from a service hallway into a proper hallway, and then they were outside a large door.

“So,” a voice boomed out as they walked in. “You think you’ve captured the Kingslayer?”

Inside, a large—no, huge—man sat at a desk in a sparsely decorated study. There wasn’t much decorating the stone walls, but of what was there, there were more weapons than books. The commander himself was taller than Jorah and twice as broad, with a bushy black beard and eyebrows to match.

One of the soldiers spoke up. “Ser Rodley, this is—what’re your names again?”

“I’m Cooper. This is Harris. Aye, we’ve captured the Kingslayer. We’re here to exchange him for our reward.”

Rodley got to his feet and came around his desk. “Let’s have a look at this ‘Kingslayer’, then,” he said indulgently. Bronn wondered just how far down the foodchain this guy had to be to not recognise Jaime straight away. Jaime had been right completely correct in his quick assessment of this operation.

The man walked a circle around Jaime before coming to a halt in front of him.

“What do you say your name is then?” he asked him directly.

“It’s Jon,” Jaime said, unconvincingly. “These men accosted and captured me as I was simply going about my daily business. I need to return to Bear Island.”

“Bear Island, you say? I’m inclined to imprisoned you either way. We are no friend of the Mormonts.”

“He’s not from Bear fuckin’ Island,” Bronn put in, irritably. “He’s Jaime Lannister. Look, he has the face, the hair, the golden hand. Let’s stop playing around and discuss our price.”

Rodley stroked his beard as he made his way back around behind his desk. “I shall need to consider this. Send the prisoner to the yards. In the meantime, you may stay as my guests. I will speak to you in the morning.”

“Why you—”

“It’s alright, Cooper, give the man time,” Jorah cut in, just as Bronn intended. Their act was seamless.

“Alright,” he huffed, and tossed Jaime’s rope to one of the guards. The commander rang a bell and a few seconds later they were following a maidservant out the door. Bronn wanted to glance back at Jaime as he left, but he didn’t.

As soon as the maid left them alone in a rather shabby room with two narrow beds, Bronn set around the walls, checking for spyholes. Neither of them spoke until he was done.

“Well, they certainly don’t intend for us to see the dawn,” Jorah said in a low voice.

“No,” Bronn agreed, pulling out his dagger to test its sharpness. “So we won’t give them until then. Best to wait until the dead of night before moving, though.”

“I agree.”

Bronn flopped down onto the foot of one of the beds. “I hope Jaime’s alright,” he muttered.

 

Jaime was not alright. He was very, very not alright.

He had been mildly concerned when the commander had said ‘yard’ rather than ‘cell’. As he was led away, further and further from Bronn and Jorah, he started to feel less confident about this plan, and then when they left the warm interior of the keep and started out across a muddy yard towards some dank structures—little more than a cage, open to the elements—he started to feel ill.

“Don’t drag your feet,” the guard said sharply, tugging hard on Jaime’s rope. He pulled Jaime into one of the cages and tied him to a pole in the middle. Jaime struggled to control his breathing while the guard remained, and when he locked the door and marched off, Jaime sunk to the wet ground. His shoulders already hurt from being pulled back around the pole, and the cold was quickly seeping through his whole frame.

He started a mantra in his head, repeating to himself: I will not be here for a year. Not even a day. Bronn is coming.

Sleet was drifting down through the open bars on top of the cage. He started to shiver. Why had he ever thought this would be a good idea?

“Hurry, Bronn,” he breathed, his breath puffing in front of him.  

 

 

Bronn and Jorah made quick work of Ser Rodley.

The man clearly never saw them coming. They knocked out the few guards they encountered on their way through the keep, found his chambers, and Bronn put a knife to his throat as he woke up. Jorah calmly explained the situation to him, and the man promised to take his company and leave, as long as they let him live.

Bronn expected a surprise attack for the entire following few hours as his orders were executed, but it never came. The man did as he was told, and all the Lannister soldiers left. 

Jaime had been right when he said the guy wouldn't be intelligent.

They went straight to the cells, which were packed full, and released the castellan, his family, and his household guard. In the commotion as the freed men ran to regain control of the keep and ensure the Lannisters couldn't turn around and come back again, Bronn wound up with the castellan's daughter somehow latched on to him. 

She was a beauty, with long blonde hair and a delicate, pretty face.

“Thank you, Ser, thank you for saving us,” she sobbed into his dirty tunic.

“Er— it's alright, lass. Oi!" He yelled out to a passing maid, who turned wide-eyed to face him in the panic. "Get this girl back to her rooms, and get her a bath."

"Of course," the maid said meekly. "Come on, m'lady."

The girl turned to go, but paused, her small hands still gripping Bronn's arm. "Perhaps you'd like to join me?" she said with a grin that immediately told him that she wasn't as innocent as she made out. "It's the least I can do, after you rescued me."

Bronn grinned back. This was exactly what he’d intended to do, as soon as they got to a town, after all. She tugged at his arm and he took another step forward, then he paused.

Jaime.

Jaime was out there in the yards, still tied up, waiting for Bronn to rescue him. He squeezed his eyes shut as he realised he already knew what he was going to do, whether he liked it or not.

“Sorry, lass,” he said, with genuine regret. “I’d love to, but I have some things to take care of. Another time, alright?”

She pouted. “Things more important than me?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Her pout dropped into a scowl. “If you say so,” she griped, and turned away with a toss of her hair.

Bronn sighed. And then went after Jaime.

 

Jaime could tell something was going on inside the keep. Torches were moving behind the few windows he could see. People walking back and forth. Some people hurried through the rain across the yard near him.

His arms had started to tingle, then went through painful pins and needles, and now were mostly numb. The ropes were far too tight. He considered trying to call out to one of the men walking past, but it was probably pointless. Every time he heard the slightest sound, he prayed it was Bronn.

He was so cold he couldn't feel his toes. He was pretty sure snot had run down his upper lip and frozen there. He couldn't understand why they would put prisoners outside in this weather unless they deliberately wanted to kill them. He didn't think he'd survive the night.

But he didn't need to. Bronn was coming.

Still, it felt like hours. He lost all sense of time. He usually could tell how much time had passed without needing a clock, but he felt so frantic, like he couldn't focus on anything, he had no idea if it was five minutes or five hours.

Finally, finally, he looked up and Bronn was hurrying across the yard to him. He shifted up, relieved. He tried to get to his feet but he couldn't feel them, couldn't get his weight on them. He just sat there while Bronn broke the cage door open with his dagger.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

Jaime nodded, tried to speak, but his voice didn't work.

“Jaime?” Bronn asked, more urgently.

He broke in and hurried forward, dropped to his knees in front of him, and cupped his face in his hands.

“Fuck, you're frozen,” he muttered, and moved around behind Jaime to cut the rope tying his wrists.

Jaime couldn't help the sob that escaped him as blood rushed into his arms again. It was partly from the pain and partly sheer relief.

Bronn pulled him to his feet. Jaime’s legs were too unsteady to hold him. Bronn held him up, his arms under Jaime's, not quite an embrace, but Jaime buried his face in Bronn's neck anyway, struggling to get his breathing under control.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Bronn said half-heartedly. “A great reminder of your time as a prisoner, right?”

Jaime managed a nod against his shoulder. Bronn shifted his grip and pulled him properly into his arms, holding him tightly.

“It's alright now,” he murmured.

Jaime took deep breaths. It was alright now. Bronn was here.

“Come on, let's get you inside. Some dry clothes, a hot meal… It's alright, Jaime.”

His words made Jaime shudder with relief. Finally, he managed to get his legs under him properly. Bronn kept an arm firmly around him as they walked back across the yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope my distances/travel times make sense... but then, if they don't, really that makes me *more* canonical, right? :p
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^


	7. The Camp

Bronn left Jaime with the maids. They'd prepared a big room with a soft bed and a warm fire, they were drawing him a bath and bringing him food and new clothes… he would be fine.

And Bronn didn’t think it was a good idea to be near him right now.

Jaime had practically clung to him the entire way back from the yard and Bronn knew how tempted he would be to hang around, to stay with Jaime, to make sure he was alright, to find an excuse to lie down on the bed with him…

Better off not going there.

He half-heartedly considered going back to find the castellan’s daughter, but he didn’t have the energy. He needed to seek out a bed for himself, but instead found himself in the mess hall, slumping down on the bench opposite Jorah, who was pouring over a map of the region.

“You’re keeping that, then?”

Bronn stared at him for several seconds before he followed Jorah’s gaze to his hand and realised he was talking about Jaime’s ring.

“I tried to give it back,” he said. He _had._

“And?”

Bronn shrugged. “He told me to hold on to it.”

Jorah’s eyebrow shot up. “Are you _sure_ he’s not interested?”

Bronn rolled his eyes. “You were there when he gave it to me, remember? It wasn’t exactly meant to be a romantic gesture.”

“But it _is_ a romantic gesture.”

“Shove off, old man,” Bronn grumbled. There was no point thinking that way. He tapped his finger on the map. “Where are we going next?”

Jorah sat back. “I thought you were heading straight to White Harbour.”

“I am.”

“As soon as we get to a town, you said. Well, we’re at a town. Have you told Jaime you’re leaving yet?”

“No, I— Will you just leave off?”

“And will you tell him how you feel, before you go?”

“I—”

“What have you got to lose? You're leaving anyway. You should at least give him the chance to respond. He deserves to know why you're leaving, doesn't he?”

“I don't—”

“Or is it that you're too much of a coward to tell him?”

Bronn scowled. “You can call me whatever you like, cunt, I don’t need relationship advice from _you.”_

 

Bronn left Torrhen’s Square the next day, with the others.

He was going to leave. He needed to leave.

He stayed just for the morning. Then he stayed for the meal at midday. Then he continued with them.

But he _was_ going to leave.

He waited until the group had spread out a bit, and no one was within earshot.

“Jaime.”

Jaime turned his face to him as they walked. Bronn steeled himself.

“Listen. This lot… We got them this far. We never promised anything more.”

“I know,” Jaime replied quickly. “But Bronn, I was thinking, perhaps we should go on to King’s Landing with them.”

Bronn blanched. “King’s Landing? The fuck would you want to go back there for?”

“I just…” Jaime sighed. “If I could just _talk_ to Cersei, I think I might be able to convince her—”

“Jaime,” Bronn cut in. “If you go back there, she’ll probably kill you.”

“She won’t kill me,” Jaime said dismissively.

“Even if she doesn’t, she’ll never let you leave again.”

Bronn’s priorities were rearranging before his eyes. He couldn’t let Jaime just go back to Cersei.

He stopped walking, and grabbed Jaime's upper arms to hold him in place. “Listen," he said in a low voice. "Let’s split up with this lot. They don’t need us anymore. We’ll go east.”

“East?” Jaime’s nose wrinkled, as he glanced down at where Bronn was gripping him. “What’s east?”

“White Harbour.”

“Why would I want to go to—”

“So we can get out of here,” Bronn said fiercely. “Nothing good is gonna happen in Westeros, Jaime. Come with me. Let’s go someplace else.”

Jaime was looking at him like he was crazy.

Before he could reply, there was a shout up ahead. The others had crested a rise and paused there. Bronn let go of Jaime, and they hurried up the hill to see what they were looking at.

On the other side of the hill, a large camp spread out before them. It couldn’t quite be called a military camp; it was too ramshackle, messy, and filled with plenty of people aside from just soldiers. But the flags were—

“Winterfell,” Jorah said.

“Good eyesight for an old bugger,” Bronn muttered, squinting into the distance.

“You keep calling me old, but you’re no spring chicken yourself,” Jorah replied flatly, with just the hint of a smile curling up the edge of his mouth.

“Alright, alright. Let’s go down there, then.”

They were Winterfell men, alright. Bronn quickly gathered that this was the retreating force; the survivors of the battle. They made their way through the camp, aiming for the larger command tents in the centre. The survivors were a ragtag group, with many injured men, and women and children everywhere.

Bronn didn’t see anyone he recognised yet, but then, he didn’t know many northerners personally. So he was surprised when Jaime suddenly gave a shout and ran between the tents to their right. Bronn shouldered past the others to follow him, and didn’t catch up until Jaime was buried in a rough embrace with someone much larger and taller than him—

“Hello, Ser Bronn.”

He spun and saw Podrick walking up to his side. He grinned and grappled the boy around his neck, knuckling the top of his head until he shoved him off, smiling. “So you and your lady knight survived, then? I thought for sure you’d be dead.”

“Not yet,” Pod grinned. “I thought I saw you on the battlefield.”

“I was there. Dragged _him_ out after he got stunned,” Bronn jerked his head towards Jaime. “I didn’t think there was any point in hanging around after that, to be honest?”

Pod’s face grew more serious. “You were right. It was a bad fight.”

“Winterfell fell then?” Bronn asked sardonically.

“Yes. But we thinned their numbers. The remains of the army are making south. We’re hoping to take up Torrhen’s Square.”

“Oh, well, you’re welcome, then. We’ve just come from taking that back from the Lannister army.”

“You have?”

“Aye. I’ll tell you the story later.” He glanced over at Jaime and Brienne. He’d released her from the rather awkward embrace, but they now had their heads together, talking. It didn’t look like they’d be done anytime soon.

“C’mon, lad. Is there any ale in this place?”

 

Jaime followed Brienne to the campsite she shared with Pod. He sat in front of the neat fire and she passed him some overstrong tea.

“I thought you were dead,” Brienne said, her face turned away as she poured herself a cup. “One second you were next to me, and the next you were gone. I looked for you.”

Jaime wasn’t sure what to say. He sat with the mug balanced on his knee, watching as she eased herself down next to him.

She cleared her throat. “How did you get out?”

“Bronn,” Jaime said simply.

“He was there?”

“He arrived just as the battle was starting. I got hit on the head, almost knocked out. He dragged me out. We went through the Wolfswood to Deepwood Motte. We argued the whole way, I wanted to go back.”

“It was better you didn’t. It was a bad fight,” Brienne said shortly. “So, what do you owe him now?”

Jaime blinked at her for a moment. “Owe him?”

“Yes. It was a castle he wanted before, wasn’t it? What is it now, two castles?” Brienne rolled her eyes as she lifted the mug to her lips.

“I…” Jaime paused. “No, he hasn’t— I don’t think he did it for payment.” The thought made Jaime feel heavy in the stomach. _Had_ Bronn come after him just to get some kind of reward?

Brienne snorted. “What else would he have done it for?”

“Because we’re friends,” Jaime replied, immediately realising how pathetic it sounded.

“Jaime,” Brienne said patiently, “he’s a sellsword. People like that don’t have _friends,_ they have _prospects.”_

Jaime put his mug on the ground before he dropped it. “You don’t know him,” he mumbled. “He hasn’t been a sellsword for years, and he… he…”

Brienne’s posture changed. She put her own cup down and reached for Jaime’s shoulder, stopping him before he even realised he was about to get to his feet.

“Jaime. _Jaime._ I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said slowly. He turned to meet her gaze, and her eyes narrowed, looking at his expression closely. “Something’s happened. What is it?”

“Nothing’s happened,” Jaime said quickly, dropping his gaze. Brienne’s grip on his shoulder made him look back at her.

“Something to do with that sellsword. What did he do?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Jaime yelped. “Aside from saving me, over and over again, and… and _being there,_ and… _listening_ to me and… and…”

“You fancy him,” Brienne said quietly, frowning.

Jaime steeled his expression. “I do not.”

“You do. And _don’t_ —” she cut him off before he could speak, “don’t tell me that you only like women, I’ve heard the way you talk about _Arthur Dayne,_ and others.”

“Brienne—”

“It’s fine, I’m not— I’m not saying it’s bad, I’m just saying don’t lie to me.”

Jaime slumped. “Well… maybe.”

Brienne gave a long sigh. “Jaime… I think it’s well-known that Ser Bronn likes women.”

Jaime met her gaze. “He could be like me,” he said in a very small voice.

Brienne shook her head. “You know how unlikely that is.”

Jaime raised his hand helplessly. “Well… What can I do, then?”

“Being near him all the time isn’t going to help you. You’ll just torture yourself every day with what you can’t have. Believe me, I know what that’s like.”

“Then what?”

 

Bronn woke the next morning in the same spot he’d passed out: against a tree behind the tent where he’d nicked a wineskin. He hadn’t had a drink in far too long; It had gone straight to his head. Pod was the same. He had vague memories of what seemed at the time to be an extremely riveting discussion between them, and then nothing. The lad was slumped on the ground next to him, still snoring.

He got to his feet and stumbled into the trees for a piss, then he went looking for Jaime. The camp was waking up as he started his search. The light was growing, and people were starting their cookfires for breakfast. There weren’t too many places Jaime could be, and Bronn was concerned when he finally found Brienne and Pod’s tent and saw her sitting outside waiting for water to boil, by herself.

“Morning,” he said.

She looked over. “Morning.”

“Still asleep, is he?” he asked, jabbing a thumb at the tent. He knew Jaime had said there was nothing between him and Brienne, but he was fully prepared to find evidence of them having been together—discarded clothing and the like—when he walked over and flicked the tent flap aside.

But then—nothing. The tent was already half-packed up, neat and tidy.

“Didn’t Jaime stay here?” he asked, turning back to Brienne.

“I'm not his nursemaid,” Brienne replied mildly.

“When did he leave you?”

She shrugged. “During the night.”

“And where did he go?” Bronn asked, irritation creeping into his voice, wondering if she was being deliberately obtuse.

Brienne paused. “I don't know why you really need to know.”

_That was a yes._

_“Oh-hoh._ I see. So. You’ve decided to separate us, have you? What is it, hmm? You think I’m a bad influence? Teaching him too many naughty words?”

Brienne got to her feet. “Jaime has had enough users in his life. He doesn’t need you following him around, waiting for payment. He deserves better.”

Bronn stared at her for several seconds before realising his mouth was open. He shut it quickly.

“Is… Is that what he said?”

Brienne pursed her lips. “He said enough.”

“You know how many times I’ve saved his life these past few weeks?” Bronn asked, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “He’s determined to get himself killed honourably in some battle. Are you saying I did the wrong thing to drag him away from Winterfell? He’d already gone down from a hit by the time I got to him, and _you_ were nowhere to be seen.”

Brienne grit her teeth. “I am grateful to you for that. But nevertheless, Jaime is a grown man, and he should be free to ch—”

“If you think that, then you’re not much of a friend, lass," Bronn cut in. "He’s depressed. He did the right thing, going north, but he’s so conflicted because he had to go against his family, his house, his entire upbringing to do it. Can’t you see that? And if you’ve sent him off on his own he’s going to end up doing something stupid sooner or later, and it’ll be your fault.”

_“My_ fault?” Brienne exclaimed. _“What_ do you think he’s been doing with you? Like that wasn’t dangerous, posing as a prisoner, being reminded all over again—”

Bronn held his hands up. “Hey, I tried to stop him doing that. I knew what was going to happen.”

“If you knew, _why_ would you—”

“Look, that doesn’t matter now. I just need to know where he is, alright?”

Brienne sighed sharply. “He left last night on a mission. It’s secret.”

“Where?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know what ‘secret’ means?”

Bronn closed a hand over the hilt of the dagger at his back and stalked over to her. “I don’t give a shit about any secret mission. Where. Is. Jaime?” he said through his teeth.

Brienne, to his annoyance, didn’t seem remotely threatened. It didn’t help matters that Bronn had to tilt his head up to meet her eyes as he got closer to her.

“Well, he doesn’t seem to be here,” she said, mildly amused.

“Listen, lass. I don’t know what little game you’re playing here, but I’m not fuckin’ joking around. I need to know where he is.”

“You don’t _need_ to know. And I’m _not_ telling you.”

Their blades met with a clang. Bronn thought he’d been fast, but he’d barely seen her arm move before she drew her sword and blocked him. He hadn’t been going to actually cut her—probably.

She grinned at him, and Bronn was about to turn this into a proper fight, when a shout called out behind them.

It was Pod, running up to them, wide-eyed. “What— what— m’lady, wh— Ser Bronn, what are you—?”

“Oh, don’t lay an egg, lad,” Bronn snapped, withdrawing his blade and shoving it back in its scabbard, and then they all paused. As one, they turned at the sound of hoofbeats approaching, growing alarmingly close.

A helmeted head came bobbing down the main alleyway between the tents and then drew to a halt. Someone huge. He leaped off his horse and hurried between the tents straight to their fire, pulling off his helmet. Bronn recognised him; it was the Hound.

“Sandor,” Brienne said, with _something_ in her voice, hurrying towards him, and Bronn wanted to know _that_ story, but—

“I came back. Thought you should know,” he panted, when he reached them.

“Know what?”

“We got about an hour down the road before Lannister took off. We couldn’t stop him. Looks like he’s on his way back to King’s Landing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to admit, I *really* enjoyed writing overprotective!Brienne. It was so fun :D
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^


	8. The Red Keep

Bronn ran through the Red Keep.

His sword hilt was slippery in his hand. He’d already killed several guards as he made his way through the familiar hallways in the dead of the night. He hurried down a tight spiral staircase, and he remembered every detail; he’d been down here that often when he was working for Tyrion.

The cells.

This was where he’d find Jaime. He was here to rescue him. It had already been too long.

The jailor charged up, trying to stop him. Bronn ran him through.

“Jaime!” he yelled out. He didn’t care who heard at this point. He’d kill any of them who got in his way.

He ran down the dank row of cells, his sword dripping blood behind him. Right down to the end. The air was thick and damp.

“Jaime?”

He pulled a torch down from a sconce on the wall. He held it up high to peer into the deep darkness of the last cell.

The light fell on the figure crumpled on the ground near the back wall. Bronn staggered backwards. Jaime’s body was beaten to a pulp, and his last breath had long left him. Now he lay there, glassy-eyed, and Bronn could hear roaring, and he thought it might be his own. Guards were coming. He turned to face them. He raised his sword to slash at them as they came for him—

The world tilted sideways. Bronn suddenly found himself sitting bolt upright in his bedroll. The campfire was half-burned down to his right. A few metres away, Brienne was taking the watch shift. She was staring at him.

Bronn closed his mouth and swallowed against a raw throat. Every muscle was tense, and he was drenched in sweat, like he really had just been running down the hallways of the Red Keep.

He cleared his throat. “Jaime’s usually the one who has bad dreams,” he said hoarsely. He glanced around. Near his feet, Pod was still asleep, and spread around the campfire he could see Jorah and Reinhart still out to it. At least he hadn’t woken anyone.

“What did you dream about?” Brienne asked. She was still cold in the way she talked to him, but at least she’d agreed to come with them, joining Jorah’s mission to King’s Landing so they could find Jaime.

Bronn got to his feet, trying to shake the dream off.

“Jaime,” he said. There was no point lying. “His mangled corpse, his head on a spike… never finding him at all. It’s a different one every time.”

Brienne had that look on her face again, examining him like he was a distasteful but intriguing book.

“Go on." He nudged her with his knee. "You may as well get some sleep.”

She got up from the log she’d been sitting on, and he took her place.

She moved towards her bedroll, then paused with her back still to Bronn. “I shouldn’t have sent him off alone.”

“Aye,” Bronn sighed. “But what’s done is done, lass.”

Brienne nodded stiffly and Bronn figured that was as much of an admission as he was going to get.

 

He barely slept the entire journey south. Not that there was much time for sleeping; the group was travelling quickly now, on horseback, with long days and short nights. They'd heard the reports that the dead were moving on from Winterfell; they didn’t have any time to waste.

When they finally reached the city, Bronn no longer felt just tired, he felt ill.

He was crouched by the iron sewer gate feeling constantly like he might throw up, and it wasn’t because of the smell (mostly). It was that every time he let his thoughts wander into the territory of _what might have happened to Jaime,_ his stomach lurched again. He took a steadying breath and met Pod’s eyes briefly. The lad was crouched next to him, Brienne and Jorah opposite. They’d been waiting here over an hour already, but the timing was never meant to be exact. It was close to pitch-black, the only light from a few stars overhead reflecting off the sewerage water seeping under the gate, and it reeked worse than Fleabottom in summer.

Finally, noise and light came from inside the tunnel. Bronn peered through the grating, and saw the slim red-haired alchemist approaching with a small torch to light his way. He walked gingerly on either side of the trickle of water, jangling keys as he got close.

“Did everything go to plan?” Bronn murmured when the lad arrived at the gate and unlocked it.

“So far,” he replied. “No one noticed me arrive, anyway.”

The gate squeaked on its disused hinges, making Bronn wince and hope no guards were close enough to hear it. The three of them hurried through and Reinhart locked the gate behind them.

Bronn knew the Red Keep pretty well, but he was mildly disappointed he’d never discovered this entrance during his time with Tyrion or as Commander of the City Watch. Or as a thief in his younger years, come to think of it. He followed the alchemist through the tunnels, paying close attention to the directions automatically. The information could come in handy someday.

He wasn’t completely sure where they were until they reached a flight of stone steps, and suddenly it all fell into place. He remembered these steps—he’d first noticed them when he’d inspected the wildfire cellars with Tyrion that first time, and though he returned at various points leading up to the battle of Blackwater Bay, he’d never had the chance to further explore.

Now, as they emerged into hallway lit with sconces, there was as much activity as there had been back then.

The pyromancers—or alchemists, whatever they preferred to be called—were moving the wildfire again now. They had evidently responded quickly to Reinhart’s request. The small group paused to watch the extremely delicate operation.

When Bronn had prepared for the battle, they had moved the wildfire jar by jar, one per person, down a guarded route to the beach so that there was no possibility of anyone being bumped. The men had carried it by hand, and walked slowly.

This time, they had to carry it much further and much faster.

“What are they doing to it?” Bronn breathed, nerves jumping at his skin, as he watched one of the old men pour the bright green liquid into a barrel.

“A special formula I developed,” Reinhart muttered, watching. “The barrel is lined with a protective coating. It keeps the wildfire secure, at least for a little while. Left long enough, it will burn through, but it should allow us to transport it on carts, at least until it reaches the Neck.”

He led them through the alchemist's dungeons, to the main entrance.

Jorah paused, as the rest of them started to climb the steps, and Bronn glanced back at him.

“Things seem to be moving quickly here,” Jorah said. “If you get back before we leave, you can come with us. The guards are already bribed to let us out by the Mud Gate. But we cannot wait for you.”

“We understand,” Brienne said.

“Let’s get a move on, then,” Bronn muttered.

Brienne, Pod and Bronn slipped quietly through the door. Reinhart barred it behind them. It was the middle of the night; most of the Keep should be asleep, leaving only the guards.

“Which way?” Brienne whispered.

Bronn had thought about this a lot. The entire journey south, in fact. His first thought had been the black cells, but then he thought about Cersei. It was more likely she was keeping Jaime close to her.

“The Queen’s bedchamber,” Bronn muttered.

 

They made their way carefully through the sleeping Keep. Bronn’s heart was racing. He felt like he might just explode, like he needed to start running and not stop until he found Jaime. Like he needed to kill every single person he found in this wretched place.

But he didn’t. He held it together, letting Pod lead the way and keeping an eye on their rear, avoiding guards as they snuck all the way up to the Queen’s rooms.

There was no guard posted outside, which was odd, but they didn’t have time to stop now. The door was locked. Brienne raised her foot to kick it down. Bronn had his dagger already drawn, ready for whatever might be on the other side of the door. The guards were inside, perhaps.Sweat was already trailing down his temple. He imagined that Cersei had tied Jaime to the bed. He imagined her cutting him. Or having someone beat him. He imagined Jaime's corpse crumpled on the floor.

He shook his head to clear it. 

The door burst open under Brienne's boot. Bronn charged through as it splintered.

And then he froze.

This wasn't what he expected.

This wasn't any of the things he'd expected.

Inside, on the bed, were two naked bodies—Jaime on his back, Cersei straddling him. Bronn caught the motion of her hips before she froze as they burst in.

Bronn's brain couldn't quite register what his eyes were seeing.

And then—

Bronn was hit so hard he flew backwards, rebounded against the opposite wall and skidding along the floor down the corridor. He got to his feet, his head swimming, trying to figure out what had happened. For a moment he thought the door had somehow rebounded and hit him, but that had been harder than any door. Brienne flew out of the room after him, and then a large gauntleted boot stepped out after her.

The Mountain emerged from the room. Fully armoured, sword drawn.

As he came out into the hallway, Cersei slipped out behind him, a robe wrapped around her, and fled down the hall.

Brienne got to her feet. “Pod, get Jaime out,” she called out; Pod must still be in the room.

She drew her sword, preparing to face off the Mountain as he approached on his stiff legs.

Bronn felt strange. Like he’d been dipped in ice. He couldn’t feel his toes.

“Looks like Jaime doesn’t need rescuing after all,” he said, in a voice that he didn't recognise.

“Bronn,” Brienne said in a sharp voice, snapping his focus back. “Concentrate. I need your help now.”

Bronn shook his head to clear it. “That you do,” he said, drawing his own sword and stepping up to stand shoulder to shoulder with her as the Mountain took a swing at them.

The fight was terrible. Bronn never wanted to fight this monster, and now here he was. Even two against one (and the pair of them weren’t exactly an unskilled team), it was desperate.

They fought all the way down the hall. Bronn saw some other guards poke their heads out of doorways once or twice, and then hastily disappear. They didn’t want to get involved, and he didn’t blame them. In their position, he also would have thought it was safe to assume the Mountain would finish them off in no time.

And yet, he hadn't yet. Bronn wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was at least thirty minutes. A stupidly long fight. They had all hacked at each other. Bronn was slippery on one foot, with the blood flowing freely down his leg from a gash on one thigh. He couldn’t spare a second to even glance down and check it.

Brienne was bleeding in various places too; none too serious yet. The Mountain didn’t seem to bleed at al, though they’d both got past his armour a few times.

Finally, Brienne found a break in his defence.

She lifted her leg and kicked at him so hard that he flew backwards. He slammed into the cabinet on the opposite wall. The cabinet jolted with the impact, and then started to tilt. Both it and the Mountain hit the floor with so much force that the floorboards splintered. With an almighty groaning and creaking, the wood gave way. The cabinet went straight through the floor, the Mountain tumbling, roaring, after it. Brienne was too close. The floor sagged inwards and she slid with it, tumbling after them.

Bronn hurried to the edge of the destroyed floor. They’d both fallen down to the next level beneath, which he thought was the armoury. It wasn’t enough of a drop to kill either of them; in fact, Brienne was already getting to her feet. Bronn stood above, his sword in hand. He didn’t leap after her straight away.

He could run for it, right now. A voice was in the back of his head yelling at him to take this chance to save his own arse. What was he even doing here? Jaime had gone back to Cersei. He was fighting _the Mountain,_ something he’d refused to do even to save Tyrion, years ago. He'd never wanted to do this. He should have been on a ship to Essos weeks ago. Months ago.

Brienne looked up at him.

Bronn sighed, and gave her a quick salute before he turned to go.

Down the stairs, across the hallway, down a side passage, through a servant’s entrance.

He was disgusted with himself.

Because in truth this change, this shift in his priorities, this  _thing_ that he hadn’t seen coming and had never consented to, but that didn’t give a shit what he wanted—he was long past the point of being able to resist it. He had jumped in front of a dragon for Jaime when he was still fucking his sister. He had followed him north with no incentive. He had saved his life even though he’d had to drag Jaime kicking and screaming from his death. And now, Jaime might not want to be saved, but fuck it, Bronn was going to do it anyway. And if Jaime was going to be saved then he was going to need the Mountain not chasing after him, and he was going to need this woman, his best friend.

So he couldn’t just run.

The servant's entrance led through to the other side of the armoury. Bronn slipped through the door and crossed the cavernous room on light feet, towards the weapons rack. Across the other side of the room, amongst the wreckage of the collapsed ceiling, he heard Brienne grunt as she swung her sword at the monster again. Steel clashed.

Carefully, quietly, he lifted down the heaviest weighted bow he could find, and some iron-tipped arrows.

He nocked one, lifted the massive beast of a bow, and fired it at Clegane.

The arrow flew across the dark room and punctured his armour, went straight through into whatever was beneath, and he jolted. But he didn’t drop, as Bronn had been hoping.

He shoved his sword at Brienne, making her skip several steps backwards, then he turned, saw Bronn standing there across the room, and started towards him.

Bronn genuinely saw his life flashing before his eyes as he fired the bow a second time. He wasn’t armoured like Brienne. He couldn’t take the Mountain on face-to-face.

The second arrow lodged right in the monster's neck, below his helmet. A perfect shot. Bronn grinned, feeling a moment of triumph. But the beast was still coming.

There was no time to shoot a third arrow.

The Mountain reached Bronn, raised a hand and shoved him backwards, slamming him against the weapons rack, so hard that he smacked the back of his head against the stone and stars overtook his vision. Several bows were knocked from their stands, clattering to the floor. The Mountain’s giant gauntleted hand was on his shoulder, crushing it into the wall. He tried to bring his sword up. The monster swatted his hand away, and he dropped it, pain flaring through his wrist. 

The Mountain shifted his grip from Bronn’s shoulder onto his throat. All Bronn’s air was immediately cut off. He thought his neck was going to snap in two. He reached for his dagger, managed to get it out from behind him, and in one last burst of strength, stabbed it straight into the exposed area under the Mountain’s raised arm that was crushing him against the wall.

Bronn gave a shattered laugh as his throat was released, and dropped back to his feet.

However, the Mountain didn’t stagger away. Before he could run for it, before he could do anything, the monster reached up, pulled the dagger straight out of his own flesh, and turned it on Bronn.

He buried it deep into Bronn's side.

“Fuck me,” Bronn sputtered, catching sight of his own dagger hilt sitting flush against his tunic.

That was the last thing he remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...don't hate me xD
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^
> 
> See the aesthetic that goes with this chapter [here](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/post/175393491654/this-isnt-how-our-story-ends-by-roque-amadi) and please reblog if you like the fic :)
> 
> Some credit is definitely due to [Kittles123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittles123/pseuds/Kittles123) [(Side Quest)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766941/chapters/29127660) for Bronn vs the Mountain inspiration :D Also thanks to [Mount_Seleya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya) for workshopping Cersei's motivations with me!


	9. Fleabottom

Jaime lurched up, his head swimming. Steel clashed alarmingly right outside the door. His stomach churned, and he groaned, burying his head in his left hand and right forearm, but he still heard Brienne yell at Pod to get him out.

“Ser Jaime, do you…?”

He looked up at the lad, the room spinning slightly. Pod was standing with his gaze politely averted, unsure what to do.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jaime said, his voice slightly slurred.

Pod retrieved Jaime’s clothes from where they were strewn across the floor and helped him dress. Jaime’s arms and legs felt like they were made of lead.

He needed Pod’s help to get on his feet, and then leaned on him heavily. The fight had moved further down the hall, and Pod hurried out the door with Jaime’s arm over his shoulders. Jaime tried to crane his neck around to see what was happening, but Pod pulled him hastily in the opposite direction, moving quickly, pausing only to peer around each corner.

“Thank you for coming for me,” Jaime said when he finally managed to get his voice to work again.

“My pleasure, Ser Jaime,” Pod grunted, hauling him bodily down a flight of stairs.

Finally, they arrived at the pyromancer’s dungeon. Jaime was confused for a moment why they were here, but when Pod knocked, it was answered by Ser Jorah.

“Ser Jaime,” he greeted, and helped him down the steps. The dungeon was a flurry of activity, with the alchemists hauling barrels up a narrow stairwell on the opposite end of the chamber. Faint moonlight shone through from a trapdoor at the top. Jaime guessed it led to the street outside.

Jorah maneuvered him onto a bench, and he sunk down gratefully.

“Are you injured?” Jorah asked.

Jaime shook his head.

Pod was already turning to go back up the stairs. “I should go help m’lady and Ser Bronn—”

He cut off. There was another thumping knock at the door. Jorah hurried up to the spyhole, glanced through and then threw the door open.

Jaime’s body froze over.

Brienne was carrying Bronn, a leg and arm over each of her shoulders. Both of them were covered in blood. Bronn’s body was limp.

Jaime’s heart clenched, and the terror that ripped through him was enough for him to gain his feet by himself.

Brienne laid Bronn down on the stone floor, and Jaime sank to his knees next to him. “Is he—”

“He took a bad hit, Jaime, I’m sorry.”

Jaime felt his breath catch in his throat. Did that mean Bronn was already—

“He’s still breathing,” Pod said, his hand resting carefully on Bronn’s chest. “Could one of the alchemists help?” he asked, looking around at the old men hauling barrels up the stairs. “Excuse me, can you help my friend?” Pod called out, his voice cracking.

“We don’t have time to stop,” one of the old men snapped, hurrying along.

“I’ll find Reinhart,” Jorah said, and hurried toward the stairs. Pod pulled off his outer tunic, bundling the fabric and pressing it to the wound in Bronn’s side.

“Hold this,” he said, grabbing Jaime’s left hand and placing it on the fabric firmly. “I’ll see if there are more supplies.” He got to his feet and ran to the closest cabinet, throwing the doors open and rummaging inside. Brienne pressed both hands against a gash on Bronn’s thigh, her fingers drenched in blood.

Jorah came back down the stairs with Reinhart hurrying behind. The red-haired lad smirked at Jaime as he sauntered over.

“Can you help him?” Jaime asked, his throat feeling thick.

“Oh, you _want_ my help now?” Reinhart sneered.

Jaime swallowed hard. “Please,” he said, though he was drowned out by Brienne.

“Help him _now,_ or you’ll answer to me,” she cut in, with her deadliest voice. Reinhart’s face drained a few shades of colour before he replied.

“Alright, alright. Get out of the way, then.”

Jaime and Brienne moved aside. Reinhart straightened his tunic indignantly, and then pulled the red stone out of his pocket.

 

Reinhart worked until the alchemists finished loading all the barrels. Jorah took over his work, assisting the alchemists to load the remaining barrels onto the waiting cart outside, and Jaime sat near Bronn’s side, unable to move. Pod found extra bandages, eventually, and he bound Bronn’s thigh and then set to work on Brienne’s various scrapes.

Finally, Jorah emerged from the stairs. “Reinhart,” he called. “The last cart is ready to go. They’re waiting for us.”

Reinhart nodded, still concentrating. Jaime hadn’t been able to bring himself to look too closely at what the boy was doing, but it involved fire, and the stone was glowing brightly. At one point, Jaime’s stomach had lurched when he distinctly caught the scent of burning flesh. But Bronn was still breathing, and the bleeding seemed to have stopped.

The young man tucked the stone away again and sat back. “That’s all I can do. He will live, if he gets to a maester quickly.”

“I can take him,” Pod spoke up. “Lord Tyrion knew a maester in the city who doesn’t ask questions. I’ll take Ser Bronn there.”

Brienne nodded, clapping a hand on Pod’s shoulder as she got to her feet.

“Jaime, we’ve got to go.”

Jaime looked up at her in surprise. “But… Bronn?”

“Pod will look after him. You can’t stay in the city, it’s not safe.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Jaime found himself saying. He _couldn’t_. Couldn’t even fathom the idea of getting up and walking away from Bronn now, like this.

Brienne tried to take his arm. “Jaime, come on. They’ll be looking for you.” She tried to lift him to his feet. Jaime threw her off.

“I said I’m not leaving him.” His voice was ragged.

Brienne gave a long sigh, and bent to haul Bronn up over her shoulders again. They climbed to the top of the secret stairs where the cart was waiting, and then they split with Jorah and the alchemists.

 

It was raining. Jaime hovered alongside Brienne as they made their way through the streets, quickly moving downhill and away from the Red Keep.

“Careful,” he breathed as Brienne started down a set of steps.

“I’m _being_ careful,” Brienne replied through her teeth.

Pod led them to Fleabottom. They waited at the mouth of a dark alley while the lad ran across a lane to knock on the door of the maester’s house. He had to knock several times before the old man answered, a lantern spilling light onto the dark street. Jaime wondered how many people had seen them passing in the dark and the rain, and hoped they hadn’t already been recognised.

He watched nervously as Pod exchanged words with the maester, their voices too low to be heard. Money changed hands. Then Pod turned, motioning them over.

They hurried across the laneway and into the maester’s house.

The front door led into a hallway narrow enough that Brienne had to turn sideways to carry Bronn through. It was warm inside and Jaime immediately felt relief as the door closed behind them, shutting out the sounds of Fleabottom at night, the rain, and the biting cold.

“Bring him this way,” the old man murmured, and led them through the house, up a narrow flight of stairs, down a hallway to a small room with a window facing onto the street.

Jaime pulled the curtains and Pod knelt to start a fire in the grate as Brienne laid Bronn down on the bed and the maester pulled supplies out of a cupboard. Bronn was pale and damp with sweat.

“All of you, out,” the maester directed in a quiet voice. “I need to concentrate.”

The three of them crowded into the narrow, quiet hallway, for a moment unsure what to do, and then an unfamiliar voice suddenly spoke.

“Come this way.”

Jaime jumped, looking around. At the top of the stairs, an old woman beckoned them. Jaime and the others followed her back downstairs.

She led them into a small parlour, waving for them to sit. Pod ignored that, trailing behind her into the kitchen and asking if he could assist.

Jaime sat, uncomfortably. Brienne raised an eyebrow at him.

“I, erm—” he wasn’t sure how to explain to Brienne that his cock was still uncomfortably hard, despite everything. Even now, it was aching. “Cersei had Qyburn prepare some… concoction. She put it in my wine. I didn’t think it would be anything very bad.”

“She drugged you?”

Jaime sighed. “She didn’t mean any harm.”

Brienne narrowed her eyes at him. “She didn’t? So you were a welcome guest, then? A happy family reunion?”

“No, I—” Jaime gaped at her for a moment. “I told Cersei I just wanted to talk. I didn’t want to _be_ with her again. She didn’t believe me. She thought I must just be… tired. Or unwell.”

“And you were on such comfortable terms with her that you happily let her put some unknown substance in your drink, and then you drank it?” Jaime couldn’t remember Brienne speaking to him in such a sharp tone since the days when she’d called him ‘kingslayer’.

“It wasn’t like that,” he replied, louder.

“What did she give you?” Brienne asked impatiently.

The old woman shuffled back into the room, Pod following her with a tray of teacups.

“I don’t know what it was,” Jaime muttered. “It was a drug, in a little vial.”

“Is this what you’re talking about?”

Jaime looked around at Pod. He’d set the tea down, and pulled a small vial from his pocket. Jaime took it from him, peering at it closely.

“It was on the nightstand,” Pod supplied.

“This is it,” Jaime nodded.

Brienne snatched it from him and read the label with narrow eyes. “He’s written on here, ‘for assistance in the bedroom. Take one drop only.’” She glanced suspiciously at Jaime’s groin again. “Assistance?” she repeated.

“Yes, that’s my problem,” Jaime said through his teeth, feeling heat flush his face. “Perhaps the maester has some kind of antidote…”

The old woman reached over Brienne’s shoulder and plucked the vial from her hand. She peered at the label and uncorked it to sniff.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

 

Daylight arrived slowly. The old woman produced a bitter-tasting remedy for Jaime’s problem, and the maester worked on Bronn until mid-morning. When he was finally done, Jaime ventured up to the room to sit at Bronn’s bedside, waiting for him to wake.

He checked over each of Bronn’s wounds. His side was stitched up neatly, and the maester had cleared away all remnants of the blood that had soaked Bronn’s skin and clothes. He was now dressed in a clean tunic and smallclothes short enough to expose the gash on his thigh, which was also closed up and clean.

Bronn’s shoulder and neck were already turning into a dark mottle of black and blue, with the clear imprint of gauntleted fingers around his collarbone and throat. His right hand was heavily bandaged. Jaime hoped it was merely bruised, and gently ran his fingers over the thick bandages, trying to feel for breaks. When he looked up, Bronn’s eyes were open.

Jaime jumped, pulling his hand back. “Bronn,” he breathed.

“Am I dead?” Bronn asked, his voice rough. He swallowed and winced. Jaime hurried to fetch water for him. He lifted it to Bronn’s lips so that he could sip.

“Fuck,” Bronn groaned as he let his head drop back.

“How do you feel?” Jaime asked tentatively.

“Hurts,” Bronn growled.

“I’ll get the maester,” Jaime said, getting to his feet again.

“Where’m I?”

Jaime paused halfway across the room and turned back. “Fleabottom. A maester’s house.”

Bronn frowned. “Not… the Keep…? Where’s your sister?”

“We escaped,” Jaime said slowly. “She doesn’t know where we are. I hope.”

Bronn gave a short, painful laugh. “I saw you, Jaime.”

The accusation burned through Jaime’s chest. He squeezed his eyes shut. “What you saw wasn’t… it wasn’t true. I didn’t go back to her. Not like that. I just—”

“I fuckin’ know what I saw,” Bronn cut in flatly.

“No, that’s not what happened.” Jaime returned to Bronn’s bedside, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to meet his gaze. “Bronn, she drugged me. I couldn’t move. I tried to stop her, I didn’t want to—” he choked off, running his hand over his face and through his hair.

“Why’d you run back to her then?”

“I just wanted to talk to her. I _told_ you I wanted to. I thought I could convince her to help with the Night King, but… I was wrong. She wouldn’t listen to me.”

Bronn tried to shift more upright on the pillows, frowning. “So… So you didn’t…” Bronn struggled with the words.

“I didn’t go back to her. Is that really what you thought?” Jaime felt it stab through him. He couldn’t believe Bronn would believe that of him so easily.

“I saw—”

“And you believed it?” He had. Jaime could see in his eyes. “You believed I betrayed you,” he said dully.

“I…” Bronn swallowed hard. Jaime realised Bronn’s left hand was gripping the sleeve of his tunic tightly. “Jaime…” he said, clearly trying to figure out how to say something, and Jaime waited, expectantly, but then the door opened.

Jaime looked around. The maester was carrying a tray with several vials, one with the distinct milky white colour that he knew meant he wouldn’t be talking to Bronn again for a little while.

He got out of the way and left the maester to his work.

 

Later in the day, Jaime sat with Brienne and Pod eating the pot pie the lad had helped the old woman prepare. He’d spent most of the day assisting her with her duties.

Jaime didn’t have much appetite.

“How is Ser Bronn?” Pod asked.

“Sleeping,” Jaime said glumly. He glanced at Brienne. “He thought I’d betrayed you all, by coming back here,” he said, disbelievingly. “He thought I’d gone back to be with Cersei again.”

Brienne sighed. “Jaime,” she said through her teeth. “Can you really blame him?”

Jaime looked up at her again. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t say anything to anyone. You just left. How were we meant to know what you were thinking?”

“Because you know _me_ ,” Jaime replied, his voice growing louder.

“Yes, but we’re not mind readers,” Brienne shot back, just as loud.

“I can’t believe you would—”

“Bronn had nightmares the entire journey south.”

Brienne’s sharp retort was enough to cut Jaime off. “Nightmares?”

“He kept dreaming we would arrive in King’s Landing and see your head on a spike. Or find you dead in the dungeons. Or never find you at all. I had the same fears.”

Pod mumbled something about fetching some wine and disappeared into the kitchen.

Brienne lowered her voice. “And then we found you _like that—_ ”

“You do realise she forced me,” Jaime growled.

“Yes, and I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Brienne said stiffly. “But it _looked_ like you’d gone back to her. I thought Bronn would have disappeared in a second after that, to be honest. But he stayed.” She sighed. “He saved my life, really.”

Jaime hesitated, watching as she dipped the spoon into her slice of pie. “But— I thought you saved him—”

“Yes, but before that. He had a chance to run away. I thought he did, I thought he was long gone. But he came back. He drew the Mountain onto himself. That’s how he got hurt.”

“I did say you were wrong about him,” Jaime said in a low voice, unable to hide the small grin that grew on his face. “You said he’d turn his back the first chance he got. He didn’t.”

“Yes, Jaime, I know,” Brienne rolled her eyes. “I was wrong.”

“And…” Jaime paused, unsure. “And what about… whether he might…”

“I don’t know about that,” Brienne murmured, returning her gaze to her meal. “But he does care about you. That much is obvious. Whether it’s in the way you’re hoping, I don’t know.”

 

There were no spare rooms in the house, every bed filled with patients. Pod and Brienne slept in the small parlour, and Jaime went up to sleep on the narrow strip of floor next to Bronn’s bed. He’d had worse sleeping arrangements in the past few weeks. He was exhausted enough that he fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down.

 

Jaime couldn’t move.

Cersei pushed him down onto the bed. His limbs were so heavy he couldn’t even lift his arms. She removed his clothes. The Mountain loomed in the corner, always in his peripheral vision.

He tried to get away, tried to jerk backwards when she touched him, but he was pressed heavily into the mattress as though an invisible force was weighing down on him. Every muscle in his body was straining with the effort of trying to flinch away.

It wasn’t just that he’d been relieved when he learned she was no longer pregnant, and was terrified of it happening again. It was that every time she touched him it felt _wrong,_ like a shock through his body, and that he had no control over what was happening.

He couldn’t escape. Cersei wouldn’t listen to anything he said. Wouldn’t listen to him telling her ‘no’, even when he said it over and over again, even when he yelled it, even when he started to feel separate from his own body, something that hadn’t happened to him for years. It became as though it was all happening to someone else, and Jaime was just there, watching. A passive observer.

Except he _was_ there. And worst of all was the knowledge that what she was doing to him was nothing worse than what he had done to her.

She pressed her hand over his mouth to stop his yelling. Her fingers dug into his jaw, the other hand pressing on his throat. He couldn’t throw her off. He couldn’t breathe. He was choking.

Jaime lurched awake, gasping in relief when he realised where he was. The quiet maester’s house, hearth crackling next to him, rain on the window. He wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to control his breathing.

“Jaime…”

He looked up.

Bronn was awake, his voice like sandpaper. “What is it?” he rasped.

“Cersei made me,” Jaime breathed, returning his gaze to his knees, his voice shuddering. “She gave me a drug and I couldn’t move and she made me. I tried to stop her.”

Bronn didn’t reply, but then he felt Bronn’s unbandaged hand fall on his shoulder, rubbing gently with his thumb. Jaime leaned into it.

Finally, Bronn said, “Aren’t you cold down there?”

Jaime looked over at him again. If Bronn was still angry about their argument before, he seemed to have forgotten it now. Jaime felt an unexpected surge of relief as he got up and moved onto the bed, sliding carefully in front of Bronn’s warm body.

A heavy arm fell across his waist, and Bronn’s nose buried in the short hair at the back of his neck. Bronn gave a long sigh as Jaime settled against him.

“Why’d you go and run off for?” Bronn murmured after a long moment, his voice quiet and muffled, and Jaime wasn’t sure if it was rhetorical or not. He hadn’t thought of an answer before Bronn continued. “I woulda come with you if you asked.”

Jaime was still trying to control his breathing. Bronn's chest was rising and falling steadily against his back, and he tried to match it. He felt the tension leaving him, his muscles slowly relaxing.

“I thought you wanted to go to White Harbour, to leave Westeros,” he said quietly. A log shifted in the fireplace and sparks flew up, crackling.

“Not without you,” Bronn replied, his voice right in Jaime’s ear, his arm tightening slightly for a moment. Jaime _almost_ groaned in sheer relief at having Bronn back, warm and solid and with him again, but he cut the noise off before it became more than half a grunt. Bronn didn’t comment, and Jaime forced himself to lie still, trying to stop his sporadically shivering muscles, until Bronn fell asleep again.

 

Jaime woke in the morning. He slipped out of bed and went down to the privy, and as he emerged there was a commotion at the front door.

He paused, peering around the corner into the hallway to see who it was. The maester answered the door.

It was the Hound.

Before he could react, Brienne, who had evidently also been spying, jumped out into the hall.

“Sandor,” she said, part surprise, part happiness. Then, “How did you know we were here?”

Sandor ducked his head to step through into the narrow hallway and the maester closed the door behind him. He rolled his eyes. “Pod mentioned a maester’s to Jorah. Tyrion knew the one. Told me where it was.”

Jaime stepped around the corner, nodding in greeting at Sandor, but before he could say anything, the man raised his massive hand and pointed at him. “I’m here for him.”

“Me?” Jaime asked at the same time as Brienne said “Why?”

“The Dragon Queen is making her move. Tyrion discussed you with her, and she’s not impressed with your absence. He sent me to get you back up there quick, so you can make a nice show of being on the right side when she kills the Night King and comes down to sack this cunt of a city.”

Jaime grimaced, but he could see the logic. He’d always been vaguely nervous around Daenerys, although when he’d met her at Winterfell she hadn’t seemed terribly concerned that he was the one who’d killed her father. Still…

“If Tyrion says so.”

“Aye,” the Hound nodded. “I’ve got a cart waiting to sneak you out.”

Jaime blinked. “Right now?”

“Aye, right now, your Highness.” Jaime didn’t miss Brienne’s slight smirk. “I just need to take a piss.”

Brienne’s expression as she watched the man stomp down the hall was… interesting. Jaime narrowed his gaze at her. “I do believe you and I have more to discuss, when I return,” he said mildly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Brienne replied, failing to meet his gaze.

Jaime sighed. “Well… I’d better go and tell Bronn—”

He glanced back toward the stairs, and to his surprise, saw Bronn already there. He was moving awkwardly down the final step, leaning heavily on a crutch, and Jaime watched with a smile on his face as Bronn limped down the hall to them. It was a relief to see him out of bed.

“You’re off again, then,” Bronn said.

“I’ll find Pod and prepare you some supplies,” Brienne put in, making a smooth exit back into the parlour. She closed the door behind her, leaving them alone for a moment.

“You heard?” he asked, waving at the hallway in general. Bronn nodded.

“Aye. Makes sense.”

Jaime tried to decide what to say, but he couldn’t think of anything. Instead, he stepped forward and put his arms around Bronn, careful of his stitches, embracing him gently.

Bronn lifted his bandaged hand to Jaime’s waist, hesitantly returning the gesture.

After a moment, it was probably time to draw back, but Jaime found that his body refused to obey his brain. He sighed.

“I wish you could come with me,” he said quietly, his voice muffled against Bronn’s shoulder.

“Me too.”

Bronn moved, letting his crutch rest against the wall to free up his left hand, bringing it up to Jaime's hair.

Nerves jumping through him, Jaime turned his head, pressing his forehead and nose against Bronn’s cheek. This was closer than they’d ever been. Bronn wasn’t moving away. Instead, he was rather still, his arms still around Jaime, his fingers threading gently through Jaime’s hair. Jaime squeezed his eyes shut and felt Bronn’s coarse beard against his face. His heart was already racing. He needed to say something, and it had to be now.

“I wish you could always come with me,” he said carefully.

Bronn leaned back slightly, enough to study Jaime’s face. Jaime hoped that was all he needed to say. He didn’t think he’d be able to hint any more strongly than that.

“Always?” Bronn repeated.

“Bronn, I—”

Bronn’s lips met Jaime’s. Heat rushed through him, with relief and happiness and sadness all mixed together. Jaime kissed him back, unfisting his left hand and wrapping it around Bronn’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

“I didn’t think you’d want this,” Bronn muttered, breaking to kiss Jaime’s jaw, then his ear.

“I thought _you_ wouldn’t,” Jaime gasped.

“Me?” Bronn spoke between kisses. “Why the fuck— d’you think I’ve been— following you around all this time, Lannister?”

“Don’t call me that,” Jaime said quickly.

“ _Jaime,_ ” Bronn growled, turning him and pushing him roughly against the wall, demonstrating far more strength than he had any right to, for an injured man.

“I thought—” Jaime said in the gaps when he was able to speak, “You wanted your castle.”

“Fuck the fuckin’ castle,” Bronn growled, running his left hand down Jaime’s back to his hip. He buried his face in Jaime’s neck. “I want you. I just want you.”

Jaime gave something between a moan and a yelp as Bronn let his hand run lower, cupping his arse and pulling Jaime flush against his body, and then claimed his lips again, kissing deeply.

He couldn’t believe how much time they’d wasted.

“I don’t want to go,” he breathed as Bronn drew back slightly.

“Aye,” Bronn said, breathless. “Don’t want to lose that pretty head of yours, though. You’d better go.”

Jaime knew they couldn’t stay like this, here where anyone could walk in and see them, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to draw back. Bronn lifted his left hand toward Jaime, and Jaime frowned, unsure what he meant.

“Here,” Bronn said, nodding at his hand. “You’d better take that back, it’s yours.”

Jaime looked properly at Bronn’s hand and realised he meant the ring. He grasped Bronn’s hand in his left, and shook his head.

“Keep it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^
> 
> See the aesthetic that goes with this chapter [here](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/post/175943487049/this-isnt-how-our-story-ends-bronnjaime) and please reblog if you like the fic :)
> 
> Thanks very much to [sarcasm_for_free](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasm_for_free/pseuds/sarcasm_for_free) for the beta.


	10. King's Landing

The Hound piled Jaime under layers of canvas on the back of his cart to get him out of the city unseen. Bronn stood at the front door of the maester’s house, leaning on his crutch, watching the cart disappear, and he had a distinct sinking feeling. Whenever he and Jaime were separated, it never went well for either of them.

“I should’ve gone with him,” he murmured.

Brienne stirred beside him. “You still need to rest,” she said. “Come on.”

They went inside. Bronn didn’t feel quite up to climbing the stairs again just yet, so he followed Brienne into the parlour and collapsed on the couch. Pod emerged from the kitchen, wearing an apron, flour splashed across his face.

“Tea and cakes?” he asked them.

Bronn grinned. “You’re back in your element, ‘ey lad?”

“I’ll have you know Pod now fights almost as well as he cooks,” Brienne said indulgently.

Bronn raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Thank you, milady.”

“I did say  _ almost _ ,” Brienne warned.

Pod bowed his head, repressing his grin. “I’ll get you that tea.”

Bronn slumped back into the couch, holding his left arm across his body protectively to prevent his shoulder from moving. 

“How do you feel?” Brienne asked, examining him as she sat down on the other end of the couch.

“I’m fine, I just… overexerted myself a bit.”

“Coming down the stairs?”

“No,” Bronn said. “Saying goodbye.”

“I see,” Brienne said, hiding a little smile. Pod emerged with a serving tray and Bronn held his question in for a moment, wondering at why he still felt the urge to protect the lad’s naive ears even now. When Pod left, he asked, “What do you know?”

“I know Jaime will be pleased,” Brienne said dryly, reaching for a cup.

Bronn took several seconds to process this. “He talked about me?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “I won’t play to your vanity. You know how he feels now.”

“I don’t,” Bronn said urgently, pulling himself laboriously out of his slump to sit forward. “All I know is I kissed him and he didn’t hit me.”

“Please don’t give me details,” Brienne said quickly, wrinkling her nose.

Bronn smirked. “Tell me then, and I won’t.”

She sighed. “He’s in love with you,” she said shortly. “Has been for ages.”

_ He’s in love with you.  _ The words seemed foreign and silly and also wonderful.  _ Jaime  _ was in love with  _ him.  _ Before now, Bronn’s wildest dreams had involved nothing more than Jaime perhaps giving him a chance. Maybe he’d be able to convince him to give it a go, if he showed him how good Bronn could make him feel. Bronn knew he was good in bed, and he’d been hoping he’d at least get a chance to give Jaime a taste, enough that he wouldn’t just reject him, enough that he’d be curious enough to at least try a second time, then a third time…

Enough that he’d let Bronn hang around, at least, and continue to help him out and support him. And protect him. And that maybe Jaime might develop some small appreciation for him.

He’d never even imagined Jaime might have  _ feelings  _ of any sort, for  _ him _ . He stared into space while Brienne quietly ate her tea and cakes, the thoughts racing around his head.

He should have acted sooner.

His thoughts were interrupted when the door crashed open. Brienne leapt to her feet. Bronn was slower to react. Before he knew what was happening, several men in Queensguard armour were piling into the room.

One of them pointed at him. “That one.”

A gauntleted fist smashed across his face.

 

Bronn woke slowly. His body ached. It was worse than waking up the first time. When his eyes blinked open, for a moment he thought he’d been blinded. He couldn’t see anything. It was pitch black. He was lying on a cold stone floor. 

He sat up, groaning with the movement, and brought his left hand to his face. He felt over his face and head for damage, and found only the lump on the side of his head where the gauntlet had struck him.

Queensguard. It had been Queensguard men who had stormed the house, and they’d been after him. He knew where he was.

The black cells.

He’d visited them a few times, when he’d been Commander of the City Watch; that short-lived assignment. He’d had prisoners kept down here, and had always shuddered with relief when he left. Now he was the one being kept down here.

He wondered if they’d got the others too. Pod and Brienne. He wondered if Jaime had got away safely. He supposed he’d be here indefinitely, at least until the Dragon Queen took over. If that ever happened.

He knew he would be best off to settle in for a long wait. The problem was the pain. His shoulder was throbbing so much he thought he could see flashes of red in his peripheral vision. The wound in his side felt damp, and pinched sharply at every movement. He couldn’t find a position where he was comfortable. He felt around the walls, around each corner. There was nothing in the small cell, not even a bucket.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he heard footsteps. It could have been an hour, or it could have been a week. He expected a brief flare of light, some bread and water shoved through a slit. His stomach growled in anticipation.

He wasn’t expecting the door to unlock and swing open, the blinding light of a torch flaring into the cell. Two Queensguard men hauling him to his feet, dragging him out.

He thought he passed out at least twice on the way. The pain in his shoulder as they dragged him, the ache in his head. He lost track of where they were going, but finally he was thrown to the floor again. When he looked up, he found he was in the room that had once been Tywin Lannister’s study. Now Cersei sat behind the desk.

“Leave us,” she directed the guards, getting to her feet and reaching for her glass of wine. Bronn’s managed to sit himself upright on his knees. Standing wasn’t an option right now.

The door closed behind him. Cersei came around to lean against the front of the desk, studying him as she swirled the wine in her glass. “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” she finally said. “How good to see you again.”

Bronn didn’t reply. He didn’t suppose there was much need for him to talk; he was only here to be crowed over for a while; her new toy. He expected this little session would be followed up with some torture. Or worse. Either way, he couldn’t summon the energy for a witty remark.

“I understand you’ve been travelling with my brother. Even after he returned to me, you came and snatched him away. But he’s not with you now. Is it possible he’s run away from you again?” She paused. “Or perhaps you know where he is. Perhaps you’ll tell me. Or perhaps I’ll ensure you’ll tell me.”

“I know he’s gone,” Bronn said, his voice hoarse.

“Gone?” Cersei repeated.

“He’ll be far from King’s Landing by now.” He hoped it was true.

Cersei couldn’t mask the flash of disappointment that crossed her face, but she quickly covered it up with scepticism. 

“Liar. You’re keeping him somewhere nearby.”

“Oh aye, you got me. I’m hiding him in my back pocket.”

Cersei threw the wine at him; the goblet hit painfully right on his nose, the contents of the cup spilling over him.

“You and your accomplices took him captive—”

“Rescued him,” Bronn corrected with a snort, licking at the wine that dripped down his face.

Cersei gave a calm smile. “Is that what he made you think?” She paused. “Did you even give him a choice? Whether he wanted to be ‘rescued’ or not?”

Bronn knew what he knew, and he wasn’t about to let this woman influence him, but he was struck by her conviction, regardless. She still believed Jaime to be loyal to her.

Cersei turned back to the desk and rang a bell. The Queensguard came back into the room.

“Take him away,” she directed. “Have him beaten until his tongue loosens.”

One of them hauled Bronn to his feet. His left hand grabbed at his side, feeling fresh blood running down under his shirt.

“Wait,” Cersei commanded suddenly.

The man holding Bronn upright paused where he was. Bronn, half slumped against the armoured brute, watched as she stepped closer, reached for him; his hand.

He had no idea what she was doing, but he followed her gaze to his finger, to Jaime’s ring. It was still there. She lifted his hand, her skin soft and gentle against his, and her finger brushed lightly over the ring.

“Where did you get this?” she asked quietly.

When Bronn didn’t immediately answer, the guard shook him. “Her Grace asked you a question.”

Cersei met his eyes directly for the first time since he’d arrived, and Bronn found himself answering. “He gave it to me,” he said honestly. 

“You stole it,” she accused faintly.

“He gave it to me,” Bronn repeated, with emphasis. Though he got the impression Cersei already knew.

She let his hand drop, stepping back, anguish suddenly distorting her features.

“Release him,” she said, turning away. “Return him to the place you found him. The others as well. Pay for any damage.”

The Queensguard men seemed as shocked as Bronn, pausing for several moments in confusion.

“Are you deaf?” Cersei asked sharply, jolting them into action. Bronn felt like he was in some kind of silly dream where nothing made sense. They marched him back out of the study, and then with no delay they escorted him all the way back to the maester’s house in Fleabottom, though most of the way they had to haul him by one arm each. They were joined halfway there by two other Queensguard escorting Brienne and Pod, who both looked a little roughed up but none the worse for wear. The front door of the maester’s house was still splintered and sitting on its hinges. They tossed the confused old man several gold coins when he emerged, spluttering at them.

Bronn slumped down onto the front step as soon as they released him. Brienne shoved at the guard once he cut the binds on her wrists, snarling, and then watched in confusion as the Queensguard all turned and left.

“What happened?” she demanded, turning to Bronn. “Why did they release us?”

Bronn looked down at the ring on his hand. “Cersei saw this,” he said, holding up his fourth finger.

Brienne narrowed her eyes at it. “She saw a ring, and she just let you go?”

Bronn nodded. “Straight away. Once glimpse at it and she ordered her men to send us all back and pay for any damage.”

“What kind of ring is it?” Pod asked faintly.

“It was Jaime’s mother’s.”

Bronn’s eyes widened as he looked up at Brienne. “It’s  _ what?” _

“He used to wear it round his neck?” Brienne questioned.

“Yeah.”

“Then it’s the same one.” Brienne frowned at him. “I thought he must have given it to you in place of gold. For your services.”

Bronn scowled. “He gave it to me to keep it safe when he posed as a prisoner, and after that he refused to take it back. He said it looked better on me. I didn’t know it was anything special.”

“It still doesn’t explain why she didn’t just take the ring back and have you executed,” Pod pointed out.

Bronn nodded. He didn’t understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment and let me know what you thought, or chat with me [on Tumblr!](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/) ^_^
> 
> See the aesthetic that goes with this chapter [here](https://roqueamadi.tumblr.com/post/178097741104/roqueamadi-this-isnt-how-our-story-ends) and please reblog if you like the fic :)


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